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lovell’s Household Library 

This admirable series of Popular Books is printed on heavier and larger 
paper than other cheap series, and is substantially bound in an attractive 
cover. 

The following have been issued to date. The best works of new fiction 
will be added as rapidly as they appear. 


1 A Wicked Girl, by M. C. Hay 25 

2 roe Moonstone, by Collins 25 

3 Moths, by Ouida 25 

4 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll, by R. L. 

Stevenson ; and Faust 25 

5 Peck’s Bad Boy and his Pa, by Geo. 

W. Peck 25 

8 Tane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte 25 

7 Peck’s Sunshine, by Geo. W. Peck. .25 

8 Adam Bede, by George Eliot 25 

9 Bill Nye and Boomerang, by Bill 

Nye Himself 25 

10 What Will the World Say ? 25 

11 Lime Kiln Club, byM. Quad 25 

12 She, by H. Rider Haggard 25 

13 Dora Thorne, by B. M. Clay 25 

14 File No. 113, by E. Gaboriau 25 

15 Phyllis, by The Duchess 25 

18 Lady Val worth’s Diamonds, and The 
Haunted Chamber, by The Duchess.25 

17 A House Party, and A Rainy June, 

by Ouida 25 

IS Set in Diamonds, by B. M. Clay 25 

19 Her Mother’s Sin, by B. M. Clay 25 

20 Other People’s Money, by Gaboriau.25 

21 .\iry Fairy Lilian, by The Duchess.. 25 

22 In Peril of His Life, by Gaboriau 25 

23 Tne Old.Mam’selle’s Secret, by E. A. 

Marlitt 25 

24 The Gt .. .y River and The New Mag- 

dalen, by Wilkie Collins 25 

25 John Halifax, byMlssMulock 25 

28 Marjorie, by B. M. Clay 25 

27 Lady Audley’s Secret, by Braddon. .25 

28 Peck’s Fun, by George W. Peck 25 

29 Thorns and Orange Blossoms, by B. 

M. Clay 25 

80 East Lynne, by Mrs. Wood 25 

31 King Solomon’s Mines, by Haggard.. 25 
82 The Witch’ s Head, by Haggard 25 

33 The Master Passion, byMarryat 25 

34 Jess, by H. Rider Haggard 25 

85 Molly Bawn, by The Duchess 25 

36 Pair Women, by Mrs. Forrester 25 

37 The Merry Men, by Stevenson 25 

33 Old Myd dleton’s Money, by Hay 25 

89 Mrs. Geoffrey, by The Duchess 25 

40 Hypatia, by Rev. Charles Kingsley.. 25 

41 What Would You Do Love? 25 

42 .Eli Perkins, Wit, Humor, and Pattios.25 

43 'Heart and Science, by Collins 25 

44 Baled Hay, by Bill Nye .25 

45 Harry Lorrequer, by Lever 25 

46 Called Back and Dark Days, by Hugh 

Conway 25 

47 Eadymion, by Benjamin Disraeli. . . .25 

48 Ciaribe.rs Love Story, by B. M. Clay. 25 

49 Forty Liars, by Bill Nye 25 

60 Dawn, byH. Rider Haggard 25 

51 Shadow of a Sin, and Wedded and - 

Parted, by B. JL Clay . . 25 


62 Wee Wide, by Rosa N. Carey 25 

63 The Dead Secret, by Collins 26 

64 Count of Monte Cristo, by Dumas... 60 

65 The Wandering Jew, by Sue 50 

66 The Mysteries of Paris, by Sue 60 

67 Middlemarch, by George EUot 60 

68 Scottish Chiefs, by Jane Porter 60 

59 Under Two Flags, by Ouida. .60 

60 David Copperfield, by Dickens . . 60 

61 Monsieur Lecoq, by Gaboriau 60 

62 Springhaven, by R. D. Blackmore. ..26 

63 Speeches of Henry W ard Beecher on 

- the War 6C 

64 A Tramp Actor 25 

65*20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, by 

Jules Verne 25 

66 Tour of the World in 80 Days, by 

Jules Verne 25 

67 The Golden Hope, by Russell 25 

68 Oliver Twist, by Dickens 25 

69 Lovell’s Whim, by Shirley Smith 25 

70 Allan Quatermain, by Haggard.. .25 

71 The Great Hesper, by Frank Barrett 25 

72 As in a Looking Glass, by F. C. 

Philips. . . 25 

73 This Man’s Wife, by G. M. Fenn 25 

74 Sabina Zembra, by Wm. Black 26 

75 The Bag of Diamonds, by G. M. Fenn.25 

76 £10,000, by T. E. Willson .25 

77 Red Spider, by S. Baring-Gould . . .25 

78 On the Scent, by Lady Margaret 

Majendie 26 

79 Beforehand, by T, L. Meade 25 

80 The Dean and his Daughter, by the 

author of “As in a Looking Glass. ”25 

81 A Modern Circe, by The Duchess 25 

62 Scheherazade, by Florence Warden.25 

83 “The Duchess,” by The Duchess. ...25 

84 Peck’s Irish Friend, Phelan 

Geogehan, by Geo. W. Peck 25 

85 Her Desperate Victory, byEayne...26 

86 Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith, 

' by F. C. Philips 25 

87 Jessie, by author of “ Addie’s Hus- 

band” 25 

88 Memories of Men who Saved the 

Union, by Donn Piatt 25 

89 Dick’s Wandering, by Sturms 25 

90 Confessions of a Society Man 25 

91 Lady Grace, by Mrs. Henry Wood, 

author of “East Lynne” 25 

92 The Frozen Pirate, by Russell 25 

93 Jack and '^ree Jills, by Philips ... 25 

94 A Tale of Three liions, by Haggard.25 

95 From the Other Side, by Notley 26 

96 Saddle and Sabre, by Hawley Smart. 26 

97 Treasure Island, by R. L. Steven- 

son 25 

98 One Traveller Returns, by D. C. 

Murray 25 

99 Mona’s Choice, by Mrs. Alexander. . 25 


JOHN IV. LOVELL CO., 14 & 16 Vesey Street, New York. 


LOVELL’S LIBRAHT. 


COMPLETE CATALOGUE BY AUTHORS. 

Lovell’s Library now contains the complete writings of most of the best standard 
authors, such as Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, Carlyle, Ruskin, Scott, Lytton, Black, etc., 
etc. 

Each number is issued in neat 12mo form, and the type will be found larger, and the 
paper better, than in any other cheap series published. 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

P. O. Box 1992. 14: and IG Vesey Street, New York, 


Note. — Where no numbers are given the volumes are published in “ Munro’s Library ” 
only, the publication of which series is continued by the publishers of “ Lovell’s Library.” 


BY AUTHOR OF “ ADDIE’S HUS- 


BAND » 

1106 Jessie 20 

Addie's Husband 20 

BY G, M. ADAM AND A. E. 
WETHERALD 

846 An Algonquin Maiden 20 

BY MAX ADELER 

295 Random Shots. . .' 20 

825 Elbow Room 20 

BY GUSTAVE AIMARD 

560 The Adventurers 10 

667 The Trail-Hunter 10 

678 Pearl of the A ndes 10 

1011 Pirates of the Prairies 10 

1021 The Trapper’s Daughter 10 

10.32 The Tiger Slayer 10 

1045 Trappers of Arkansas 10 

1052 Border Rifles 10 

106-3 The Freebooters 10 

1069 The White Scalper 10 

1071 t-Juide of the Desert 10 

1075 The Insurgent Chief 10 

1079 The Flying Horseman 10 

1081 Last of the Annas 10 

1086 Missouri Outlaws 10 

1089 Prairie Flower 10 

1098 Indian Scout 10 

1101 Stronghand 10 

1103 Bee Hunters 10 

1107 Stoneheart 10 

1112 Queen of the Savannah 10 

1115 The Buccaneer Chief 10 

1118 The Smuggler Hero 10 

1121 The Rebel Chief 10 

1127 The Gold Seekers 10 

1133 Indian Chief 10 

1138 Red Track 10 

1145 The Treasure of Pearls 10 

1160 Red River Half Breed 10 

BY MRS. ALDERDICE 

846 An Interesting Case 20 

BY GRANT ALLEN 

For Maimie’s Sake 20 

BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 

419 Fairy Tales 20 

BY G. W. APPLETON 

A Terrible Legacy 20 


BY MRS. ALEXANDER 

62 The Wooing O’t, 2 Parts, each 16 

99 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

209 The Executor 20 

349 Valerie’s Fate 10 

664 At Bay 10 

746 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

777 A Second Life 20 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow..., 10 

840 By Woman’s Wit 20 

995 Which Shall it Be? 20 

1044 Forging the Fetters 10 

1105 Mona’.s Choice 20 

1142 A Life Interest 20 

Look Before You Leap 20 

The Heritaare of Langdale 20 

Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

BY F. ANSTEY 

30 Vice Vers^ ; or. A Les.son to Fathers. . 20 

394 The Giant’s Robe 20 

4.53 Black Poodle, and Other Tales 20 

616 The Tinted Venus 15 

7.55 A Fallen Idol 20 

BY THE DUKE OF ARGYLE 

1175 The Reign of Law 25 


THE FAMILY,” BTC. 

The Gambler’s "Wife 20 


MOTHER’S SAKE ” 

Leonie 20 


ETTE’S SECRET ” 

Pauline 20 

BY T. S. ARTHUR 

496 Woman’s Trials 20 

507 The Two Wives 15 

,518 Married Life 16 

538 3’ he Ways of Providence 15 

515 Home Scenes 15 

554 Storie.s for Parents 15 

563 Seed-Time and Harvest 15 

568 Words for the Wise 15 

674 Stories for Young Housekeepers 15 

579 Lessons in Life 15 

682 Off-Hand Sketches 16 

685 Tried and Tempted 15 


8 


LOVELL^ S LIBEARY 


BY AUTHOR OF “ QUADROONA ” 


Plot and Counterplot 20 

BY EDWIN ARNOLD 

430 The Light of Asia 20 

456 Pearls of the Faith 15 

472 Indian Song of Songs 10 

BY EDWARD AVELING 

1066 An American Journey 30 

BY W. E. AYTOUN 

851 Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers 20 

BY ADAM BADEAU 

756 Conspiracy 25 

BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER 

206 Cast up by the Sea 20 

227 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 

233 Eight Years’ Wandering in Ceylon, ,20 

BY C. W. BALESTIER 

381 A Fair Device 20 

405 Life of J, Q, Blaine 20 

BY R, M. BALLANTYNE 

215 The Red Eric 20 

226 The Fire Brigade 20 

239 Erling the Bold 20 

241 Deep Down 20 

BY S. BARING-GOULD 

875 Little Tu’prnny 10 

1061 Red Spider 20 

BY A. E. BARR 

The Last of the MacAllisters 10 

BY FRANK BARRETT 

1009 The Great Hesper 20 

1130 Lieutenant Barnabas 20 

BY GEORGE MIDDLETON BAYNE 

460 Galasld 20 

BY AUGUST BEBEL 

712 Woman 30 

BY MRS. LENOX BELL 

Not to be Won 20 

Wife or Slave 20 

BY MRS. E. BEDELL, BENJAMIN 

748 Our Roman Palace 20 

1077 Jim, the Parson 20 

BY A. BENRIMO 

470 Vic 15 

BY E, BERGER ^ 

901 Charles Auchester 20 

BY W. BERGSOE 

77 Pillone IB 

BY H. BERNARD 

Locked Out 10 

BY E. BERTHET 

866 The Sergeant's Legacy 20 


BY WALTER BESANT 

18 They Were Married 10 

103 Let Nothing You Dismay 10 

257 All in a Garden Fair 20 

268 When the Ship Comes Home 10 

384 Dorothy Forster 26 

699 Self or Bearer 10 

842 The World Went Very Well Then ,.20 

847 The Holy Rose 10 

1002 To Call Her Mine 20 

1109 Katharine Regina 20 

1159 In Luck at Last 20 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

203 Disarmed 15 

663 The Flower of Doom .10 

1005 Next of Kin 20 

BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON 

3 The Happy Boy 10 

4 Arne 10 

BY WILLIAM BLACK 

40 An Adventure in Thule, etc .10 

48 A Princess of Thule 20 

82 A Daughter of Heth ^ 

85 Shandon Bells 20 

93 Macleod of Dare 20 

136 Yolande 20 

142 Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. . . ^ 

146 White Wings 20 

153 Sunrise, 2 Parts, each 15 

178 Madcap Violet 20 

ISO Kilmeny 20 

1S2 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

184 Green Pastures, etc 20 

188 In Silk Attire ^ 

213 The Three Feathers 20 

216 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

217 The Four MacNicols 10 

218 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P 10 

225 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

232 Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 

456 Judith Shakespeare 20 

584 Wise Women of Inverness 10 

678 White Heather 20 

958 Sabina Zerabra 20 

BY R. D. BLACKMORE 

851 Lorna Doone, Part 1 20 

851 Lorna Doone, Part II 20 

936 Maid of Skcr 20 

955 Cradock Nowell, Part 1 20 

955 Cradock Nowell, Part II 20 

961 Springhaven 20 

1034 Mary Anerley .20 

10-35 Alice Lorraine 20 

1036 Cristowell 20 

1037 Clara Vaughan 20 

1038 Cripps the Carrier 20 

1039 Remarkable History of Sir Thos. 

Upmore 20 

1040 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin 20 

BY LILLIE D. BLAKE 

105 Woman’s Place To-day 20 

597 Fettered for Life 25 

BY M. BLOUNT 

Two Wedding Rings 


4 


lotell’s 

BY NELLIE BLY 


Ten Days in a Mad House 20 

Six Months in Mexico 20 

BY KEMPEE BOCOCK 

1078 Tax the Area 20 

BY MISS M. E. BEADDON 

88 The Golden Calf 2C 

104 Lady Andley’s Secret 20 

214 Phantom Fortune 20 

266 Under the Red Flag 10 

444 An Ishniaelite 20 

555 Aurora Floyd 20 

688 To the Bitter End 20 

696 Dead Sea Fruit 20 

698 Tlie Mistletoe Bough 20 

766 Vixen 20 

783 The Octoroon 20 

814 Mohawks 20 

868 One Thing Needful 20 

869 Barbara; or. Splendid Misery 20 

870 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

871 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

872 Taken at the Flood 20 

873 Asphodel 20 

877 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

878 Only a Clod 20 

879 Sir Jasper's Tenant 20 

880 Lady’s Milo 20 

881 Birds of Prey 20 

882 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

88;l Rupert God win 20 

886 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

887 A Strange World 20 

888 Mount Royal 20 

889 Just As I Am 20 

890 Dead Men's Shoes 20 

892 Hosttges to Fortune 20 

893 Fenton’s Quest 20 

894 The Cloven Foot 20 

Diavola, Part 1 20 

Diavoia, Part II 20 

Married in Haste — edited by Miss 

Braddon 20 

Put to the Test — edited by Miss 

Braddon 20 

Only a Woman — edited by Miss Brad- 
don 20 

BY ANNIE BEADSHAW 

716 A Crimson Stain 20 

BY CHAELOTTE BEEMEE 

448 Life of Fredrika Bremer 20 

BY CHAELOTTE BEONTE 

74 Jane Eyre 20 

897 Shirley 20 

BY EHODA BEOIJGHTON 

23 Second Thoughts 20 

230 Belinda 20 

781 Betty’s Visions 15 

841 Dr. Cnpid 20 

1022 Good-Bye, Sweetheart 20 

1021 R(>d as a Rose is She 20 

1024 Cometh up as a Flower 20 

1025 Not Wisely but too Well 20 

1026 Nancy 20 

1027 Joan 20 


LIBRARY. 


BY ELIZABETH BARRETT 
BROWNING 

421 A urora Leigh 20 

479 Poems S5 

BY ROBERT BROWNING 

552 Selections from Poetical Work.s 20 

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

443 Poems 20 

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 

318 The New Abelard ^20 

696 The Master of the Mine 10 

Matt 10 

The Shadow of the Sword 20 

God and Man 20 

The Martyrdom of Madeline 20 

Annan Water 20 

Love Me Forever 10 

BY JOHN BUNYAN 

200 The Pilgrim’s Pi’ogress 20 

BY FRED BURNABY 

Our Radicals 20 

BY ROBERT BURNS 

430 Poems 20 

BY REV. JAS. S. BUSH 

113 More Words about the Bible 20 

BY BEATRICE MAY BUTT. 

Delicia 20 

BY E. LASSETER BYNNER 

100 Nimport, 2 Parts, each 15 

102 Tritons, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HALL CAINE 

1143 The Deemster 20 

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 

626 Poems 20 

BY MRS. CAMPBELL-PRAED 

The Head Station 20 

BY ROSA NOUCHETE CAREY 

660 For Lilias 20 

911 Not Like other Girls 20 

912 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

969 Wee Wifie 20 

960 Wooed and Married 20 

1140 Only the Governess 20 

BY WM. CARLETON 

190 Willy Reilly 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding 10 

821 Larrv McFai land’s Wake 10 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral 10 

82.3 The Midnight Mass. 10 

824 Phil Parcel 10 

825 An Irish Oath 10 

826 Gfiine to Maynooth 10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship 10 

828 Dominick, the Poor Scholar. 10 

829 Neal Malone 10 

BY LEWIS CARROLL 

480 Alice’s Adventures . . 20 

481 Through the Looking-Glass 90 


LOVELu 6 LIBEACT. 


BY THOMAS CARLYLE 

466 History of French Revolution, 2 

Parts, each 25 

494 Past and Present 20 

500 The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

beau - 20 

508 Cbartism 20 

6'>)8 Sartor Resartus 20 

614 Early Kings of Norway 20 

620 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 10 

622 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. . .10 

525 Life of Heyne 15 

Voltaire and Novalis 16 

Heroes, and Hero-Worship 20 

Signs of the Times 15 

German Literature 15 

Portraits of John Knox 15 

Count Cagliostro, etc 15 


62S‘ 

641 

646 

650 

561 

671 

578 


20 


580 


H 

44 

Vol. II 

..20 

691 



44 

Vol. III.... 

..20 

610 



44 

Vol. IV.. . 

..20 

619 

i( 

n 

44 

Vol. V 

...20 

622 

4( 

(( 

44 

Vol. VI. . . 

20 

626 

(< 

44 

44 

Vol. VII .. . 

...20 

628 

4« 

44 

44 

Vol. VIII.. 

20 


630 Life of John Sterling 20 


638 

686 

643 

646 

649 

652 

656 

658 

661 

10S8 

1090 


422 


Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

Life of Schiller 20 

Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 

“ “ Vol. II 25 

“ “ Vol. Ill 25 

Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 
Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays. 15 
Baillie the Covenanter and other Es- 
says 15 

Dr. Francia and other Essays 15 

Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

o Pfivfc pof'Vi 20 

Wilhelm Meister’s Travels." ." 20 

.BY “CAVENDISH” 

Cavendish Card Essays 15 

BY CERVANTES 

417 Don Quixote ... 30 

BY L. W. CHAMPNEY 

119 Bourbon Lilies 20 

BY VICTOR CHERBDLIEZ 

242 Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

BY MRS. C. CLARKE 

More True Than Truthful 20 

BY REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLARK 

167 Anti-Slavery Days 20 

BY CRISTABEL R. COLERIDGE 

1028 A Near Relation 20 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

628 Poems 30 

BY B. COLLENSIE 

A Double Marriage 20 

BY BERTHA M. CLAY 

183 Her Mother’s Sin 

277 Dora Thome 

287 Beyond Pardon 

420 A Broken Wedding-Ring 


428 Repented at Leisure . 


.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 

.20 


468 Sunshine and Rosea 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

474 A Woman’s Temptation ..20 

476 Love Works Wonders . 20 

658 Pair but False 10 

693 Between Two Sins 10 

651 At War with Herself 15 

669 Hilda 10 

659 Her Martyrdom 20 

692 Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

694 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

695 Wedded and Parted 10 

700 In Cupid’s Net 10 

701 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

718 A Gilded Sin 10 

720 Between Two Loves 20 

727 For Another’s Sin 20 

780 Romance of a Young Girl 20 

73.3 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

738 A Golden Dawn 10 

739 Like no Other Love 10 

"ilO A Bitter Atonement 20 

7-^4 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

752 Set in Diamonds 20 

764 A Fair Myster 3 ' 20 

8U0 Thorns and Orange Blossoms 10 

801 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

803 Love's Warfare 10 

804 Madolin’s Lover 20 

806 From Out the Gloom 20 

807 Which.Loved Him Best 10 

808 A True Magdalen 20 

809 The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

810 Prince Charlie’s Daughter 10 

811 A Golden Heart 10 

812 Wife in Name Only 20 

815 A Woman’s Error 20 

896 Marjorie 20 

922 A Wilful Maid 20 

923 Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce 20 

926 Claribel’s Love Story 20 

928 Thrown on the World 20 

929 Under a Shadow ,20 

930 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

932 Hilary’s Folly 20 

933 A Haunted Life 20 

934 A Woman’s Love Story 20 

969 A Woman’s War 20 

984 ’Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

985 Lady Diana’s Pride 20 

986 Belle of Lynn 20 

988 Marjorie’s Fate 20 

989 Sweet Cjmbeline 20 

1007 Redeemed by Love 20 

1012 The Squire's Darling 10 

1013 The Mysterv of Colde Fell. 20 

1030 On Her Wedding Morn 10 

1031 The Shattered Idol 10 

1083 Letty Leigh 10 

1 041 The Mystery of the Holly Tree 10 

1042 The Earl’s Error 10 

1043 Arnold's Promise 10 

1051 An Unnatural Bondage 10 

1064 The Duke’s Secret 20 

Diana’s Discipline 20 

Golden Gate 20 

His Wife’s Judgment 20 

A Guiding Star 20 

A Rose in Thorns 20 

A Thorn in Her Heart 20 

A Nameless Secret. ^ 

A Mad Love ^ 


6 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY MABEL COLLINS 

Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter 20 

The Prettiest Woman in Warsaw . . .20 

BY WILKIE COLLINS 

8 The Moonstone, Part 1 10 

9 The Moonstone, Part 11 10 

24 The New Magdalen 20 

87 Heart and Science 20 

418 “I Say No” 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

683 The Ghost’s Touch 10 

686 My Lad 5'’8 Money 10 

722 The Evil Genius 20 

839 The Guilty River. 10 

957 The Dead Secret. 20 

996 The Queen of Hearts 20 

1003 The Haunted Hotel 10 

1176 The Legacy of Cain 20 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

429 Called Back 15 

462 Dark Days 15 

612 Carriston’s Gift 10 

617 Paul Vargas: a Mystery 10 

631 A Family Affair 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor 10 

672 Slings and An'ows 10 

716 A Cardinal Sin 20 

745 Living or Dead 20 

760 Somebody’s Story 10 

968 Bound by a Spell 20 

All in One 20 

A Dead Man’s Face ..10 

BY J. FENIMOEE COOPER 

6 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy 20 

366 The Pathfinder 20 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

441 Home as Found 20 

463 The Deerslayer 30 

467 The Prairie 20 

471 The Pioneer 25 

484 The Two Admirals 20 

488 The Water- Witch 20 

491 The Red Rover 20 

601 The Pilot 20 

600 Wing and Wing 20 

612 Wyandotte * 20 

617 Heiden mauer 20 

619 The Headsman 20 

624 The Bravo 20 

627 Lionel Lincoln 20 

629 Wept of Wish-ton-Wish 20 

632 Afloat and Ashore 20 

Miles Wallinerford 20 

643 The Monikins . .20 

648 Mercedes of Castile . . 20 

563 The Sea Lions 20 

669 The Crater 20 

662 Oak Openings 20 

670 Satanstoe 20 

676 The Chain-Bearer 20 

687 Ways of the Hour 20 

601 Precaution 20 

603 Redskins 25 

611 Jack Tier 20 

BY C. H. W. COOK 

1099 The True Solution of the Labor 
Question 10 


BY KINAHAN CORNWALLIS 


409 Adrift with a Vengeance 28 

BY THE '‘COUNTESS” 

The World Between Them 20 

A Passion Flower 20 

BY GEORGIANA M. CRAIK 

1006 A Daughter of the People 20 

BY MADAME AUGUSTE CRAVEN 

Fleurange 20 

BY R. CRISWELL 

350 Grandfather Lickshingle 20 

BY B. M. CROKER 

Pretty Miss Neville 20 

BY MAY CROMMELIN 

Goblin Gold 10 

BY S. C. CUMBERLAND 

The Rabbi’s Spell 10 

BY MRS. DALE 

Fair and False 20 

Behind the Silver Veil 20 

BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

345 Dante’s Vision of Hell, Purgatory, 
and Paradise 20 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 

260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

315 Winifred Power 20 

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

604 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack..-.. 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob .26 

Sappho 10 

BY REV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 

463 Mystic London 20 

BY VARINA ANNE DAVIS 


1166 An Irish Knight of the 19th Century.25 

BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 


431 Life of Spenser 10 

BY C. DEBANS 

476 A Sheep in Wolfs Clothing . . .20 

John Bull’s Misfortunes 10 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 

BY A. D’ENNERY 

The Two Orphans 20 

The Wife’s ^^r^ce 10 


7 


LOVELL^S LIBRARY, 


BY THOS. BE QUINCEY 

20 The Spanish Nun 10 

1070 Confessions of an English Opium 
Eater 20 

BY GAEL DETLEF 

29 Irene; or, The Lonely Manor 20 

BY CHARLES DICKENS 

10 Oliver Twist 20 

88 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

76 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pickwick Papers, 2 I’arts, each £0 

140 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

144 01(1 Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each., .15 

160 Barnaby Rndge, 2 I’arta, each 15 

158 David Copperfield, 2 Parts, each ... .20 

170 Hard Times 20 

192 Great Expectations 20 

201 Martin Chuzilewit, 2 Parts, each. . ..20 

210 American Notes ,. 20 

219 Dombey and Son. 2 Parts, each 20 

223 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each. 2<) 

228 Onr Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, each... 20 

231 Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 

234 Pictures from Italy 16 

237 The Boy at M ugby 10 

244 Bleak House, 2 Parts, each 20 

246 Sketches of the Young Couples.. . . .10 

261 M aster Humph rey’s Clock 10 

267 The Haunted House, etc 10 

270 The Mudfog Papers, etc ., 10 

273 Sketches by Boz 20 

274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

282 Uncommercial Traveller 20 

288 Somebody’s Luggage, etc 10 

293 The Battle of Life, etc 10 

297 Mystery' of Edwin Drooti 20 

298 Reprinted Pieces 20 

802 No Thoroughfare 15 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

BENJAMIN DISRAELI’S WORKS 

Lothair 20 

The Young Duke 20 

Tancred ; or. The New Crusade 20 

Miriam Alroy 20 

Henrietta Temple 20 

Coningsby 20 

Sybil ; or. The Two Nations 20 

Venotia 20 

Endymion 20 

Contaiina Fleming 20 

Vivian Gray, Part J 20 

Vivian Gray, Part II . . .20 

The Rise of Iskander and Other 

Tales 20 

Lord Beaconsfield’s Life and CoiTe- 
spondence 10 

BY WILLIAM DODSON 

A Choice of Chance 20 

BY PROF, DOWDEN 

404 Life of Southey 10 

BY EDMUND DOWNEY 

1126 A House of Fears 20 

In One Town 20 

BY EDITH S. DREWRY 

Baptized with a Curse 20 


BY JOHN DRYDEN 

498 Poems 8% 

BY r. DU BOISGOBEY 

1018 The Condemned Door 20 

1080 The Blue Veil; or. The Crime of 

the Tower 20 

1120 The Matapan Affair 20 

1146 The Detective's Eye 10 

1148 The Red Lottery Ticket 10 

11.56 The Severed Hand 20 

1171 A Fight for a Fortune 20 

1172 Bertha’s Secret 20 

1174 The Results of a Duel 20 

The Parisian Detective 20 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 

58 Portia 20 

76 Molly Bawn 20 

78 Phyllis... 20 

86 Monica 10 

90 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

92 Airy Fairy Lilian 20 

126 Loys, Lord Beresford 20 

132 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

162 Faith and Unfaith 20 

168 Beautj'’s Daughters 20 

284 Rossmoyne 20 

451 Doris 20 

477 A Week in Killarney 10 

630 In Durance Vile 10 

618 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “ O Tender 

Dolores” 20 

621 A Maiden all Forlorn 10 

624 A Passive Crime 10 

721 Lady Branksmere 20 

736 A Mental Struggle 20 

737 The Haunted Chamber 10 

792 Her Week’s Amusement 10 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 20 

1065 A Modern Circe 20 

1072 The Duchess 20 

1136 Marvel 20 

BY LORD DUFFERIN 

95 Letter’s from High Latitudes 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part 1 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo. Part I 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part II.. .20 

885 Monte Cristo and His Wife 

891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Parti... 20 
891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Part II.. .20 
998 Beau Tancrede 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JR. 

992 Camille 10 

Annette 20 

BY MOSTYN DURWARD 

For Better, For Worse 20 

Sweet as a Rose 20 

AMELIA B. EDWARDS’ WORKS 

Barbara’s History 20 

Miss Carew 20 

My Brother’s Wife 24 

Hand and Glove .98 


d 


loyell’s libeaet. 


BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 


081 A Girton Girl 20 

Jet: Her Face or Her Fortune 10 

A Ballroom Repentance .20 

A Point of Honor 20 

Ought We to Vieit Her 20 

Leah : A Woman of Fashion 20 

Archie Lovell 20 

A Blue St<»cking 10 

Susan Fielding 20 

A Vagabond Heroine 10 

Philip EnrnscIifPe .... 20 

Vivian the Beatity 10 

Steven Lawrence 20 

A Playwright’s Daughter .10 

BY GEORGE ELIOT 

66 Adam Bede, 2 Parts, each 15 

69 Amos Barton 10 

71 Silas Marner 10 

79 Bomola, 2 Parts, each 15 

149 J anet’s Repentance 10 

161 Felix H(»lt 20 

174 Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 

195 Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

205 The Spani-h Gypsy.and other PoemK20 

207 The IVIill on the Fk)s», 2 Parts, each.15 

208 Brother Jacob, < tc 10 

374 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 

Book 20 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

878 Essays, Fii’st Series 20 

1167 Essays, Second Series 20 

EVA EVERGREEN’S WORKS 

Ten Years of His* Life 20 

Agatha 20 

BY KATE EYRE 

A Step in the Dark 20 

ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

848 Bunyan, by J. A. Fronde 10 

407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Nichol .10 

413 Chancer, by Prof. A. W, Ward 10 

424 Cowper, by Gold win Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morrison 10 

226 Goldsmith, by William Black. 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie Stephen 10 

38t) Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Pattison 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

864 Scott, by R. H. Hutton 10 

361 Shelley, by J. Symonds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden. ...10 
431 Spenser, by the Dean of St. PauPs, .10 
844 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope. ..10 
410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 

BY OLIVE P. FAIRCHILD 

A Struggle for Love 20 

BY HARRIET FARLEY 

478 Christmas Stories 20 


BY B. L. FARJEON 

243 Gautran ; o**, House of White Shad- 


ows 28 

654 Love’s Harvest M 

874 Nine of Hearts 20 

The Sacred Nugget id 

Grif 20 

Aunt Parker 20 

A Secret Inheritance 2(1 

BY J. M. FARRAR 

Life of Mary Anderson ,10 

BY F. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

19 Seekers after God 20 

60 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

each 20 

BY GEORGE MANNVILLE FENN 

1004 This Man’s Wife 20 

lOliO The Bag of Diamonds 20 

1129 The Story of Antony Grace 20 

1132 One Maid’s Mischief 20 

The Dark House 10 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

987 Romance of a Poor Yoimar Man .... 10 
Led Astray, adapted by Helen M. 
Lewis 20 

GERALDINE FLEMING’S WORKS 

False 20 

A Sinless Came 20 

Leola Dale’s Fortune 20 

Who Was the Heir? 20 

Only a Girl’s Love 20 

Countess Isabel 10 

How He Won Her 20 

Sunshine and Gloom 20 

A Sister's Sacrifice 20 

A Terrible Secret 20 

Slaves of the Ring 20 

Entrapped 20 

$5,900 Reward 20 

Wild Margaret 20 

LAURA C. FORD’S WORKS 

Enemies Born 20 

Electra 20 

For Honor’s Sake 20 

Dais 3 ^ Darrell 20 

BY GERTRUDE FORDE 

1162 Onlv a Coral Girl 20 

In the Old Palazzo 20 

BY MRS. FORRESTER 

760 Fair Women 20 

818 Once Again 20 

843 My Lord and My Lady 20 

844 Dolores 20 

850 My Hero 20 

859 Viva 20 

860 Omnia Vanltas 10 

&)1 Diana Carew 20 

862 From Olympus to Hades 20 

863 Rhona 20 

864 Roy and Viola 20 

SfaS June 20 

866 Mignon 20 

867 A Young Man’s Fancy 30 


9 


loyell’s 

BY FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA 
MOTTE FOUQUE 


LIBRARY. 

BY IDA LINN GIRARD 

A Dangerous Game 10 

BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL 


711 Undine . 10 

BY THOMAS FOWLER 

380 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida 10 

BY R. E. FRANCILLON 

319 A Real Queen 20 

856 Golden Bells 10 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

122 Amelinede Bourg 15 i 

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

485 My Roses 20 

BY J. A. FROUDE ' 

348 Life of Bunyan 10 

BY EMILE GABORIAU 

114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case '....20 

120 Other People’s Money 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

161 Promise of Marriage 10 

258 File No. 113 ...20 

1119 The Little Old Man of the Bati- 

gnolles 20 

1123 The Count’s Millions, Part 1 20 

“ “ “ Part II 20 

1152 The Slaves of Paris, Part 1 20 

“ Part II 20 

BY HENRY GEORGE 

52 Progress and Poverty 20 

390 Land Question 10 

893 Social Problems 20 

796 Property in Land 15 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

57 The Golden Shaft 20 

Amoret 20 

ANNIE A. GIBBS’ WORKS 

Irene 20 

The Waif of the Storm 20 

The Forced Marriage 20 

A Blighted Life 20 

A Cruel Woman 20 

Her Father’s Sin 20 

BY THEODORE GIFT 

Pretty Miss Bellew 20 

BY W. S. GILBERT 

The Mikado and other Operas 20 

BY WENONA GILMAN 

Oui 20 

Stella, the Star 20 

“General Utility” 20 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe’s Faust 20 

343 Goethe’s Poems 20 

1088 Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship, 

2 Parts, each 20 

1090 Wilhelm Meister’s Travels 20 


10 


1016 Taras Bulba 20 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

51 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

362 Plays and Poems 20 

BY MRS. GORE 

89 The Dean’s Daughter 20 

BY MISS GRANT 

The Sun Maid 20 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Despatch 20 

ANNABEL GRAY’S WORKS 

What Love Will Do 10 

Terribly Tempted 10 

EVELYN GRAY’S WORKS 

A Woman’s Fault 20 

As Fate Would Have It 20 

BY HENRI GREVILLE 

1001 Prankley 20 

BY HENRY GREVILLE 

Wild Oats 20 

BY MRS. GREY 

The Flirt 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99....y 10 

THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 Fairy Tales, Illustrated 20 

BY LAURENCE GRONLUND 

1090 The Co-operative Commonwealth. .30 

BY GUINEVERE 

Little Jewell 20 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the Mormons 16 

BY F. W. HACKLANDER 

006 Forbidden Fruit 20 

BY ERNST HAECKEL 

97 India and Ceylon 20 

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

848 She 20 

876 The Witch’s Head .’!20 

900 Jess 20 

941 Dawn 20 

1020 Allan Quatermain 20 

1100 Tale of Three Lions 10 

BY A. EGMONT HAKE 

371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’Abbe Constantin 29 


Lovell’s library 


WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF 
“HE,” “IT,” ETC. 


“ He,” a companion to “ She” 20 

“It” 20 

“Pa” 20 

“Ma” 20 

King Solomon’s Wives 20 

King Solomon's Treasures 20 

“ Bess,’’ a companion to “ Jess” .... 20 

MARY GRACE HALPINE’S WORKS 

A Girl Hero 20 

A Letter 20 

Discarded 20 

A Strange Betrothal 20 

His Brother's Widow 20 

A Wife’s Crime 20 

The Young Sc hool-Teacher 20 

A Great Divorce Case 20 

A Curious Disappearance 20 

The Divorced Wife 20 

Blind Elsie’s Crime 20 

Wronged 20 

BY GEORGE HALSE 

Weeping Feiry ' 20 

BY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower ;20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

956 The Woodlanders 20 

964 Far from the Madding Crowd 20 


BY MARION HARLAND 

107 Housekeeping and Homemaking.. . .15 

BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 


COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY j: B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clvtie 20 

1.37 Cruel Loudon 20 

1147 The Abbey Murder 20 

The Great World 20 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

870 Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather's Chair ‘..20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

466 Under the Will 10 

566 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old Mvddleton’s Money 20 

787 A Wicked Girl 10 

971 Nona's Love Te^t 20 

972 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

973 Dorothy's 'Venture 20 

974 My First Offer 10 

975 Back to the Old Home 10 

976 For Her Dear Sake 20 

977 Hidden Perils 20 

^8 "Victor and “Vanquished 20 

1029 Bnmda Yorke 10 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 
688 Poems 30 


BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 


ism 16 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 26 

MRS. CASHEL HOEY’S WORKS 

The Lover’s Creed .20 

A Stern Chase 20 

MRS. H. C. HOFFMAN’S WORKS 

A Treacherous Woman 20 

Married by the Mayor 20 

A Bar vest of Thorns 20 

Laughing Eyes 20 

Married at M dnight 20 

Lost to the World 20 

Love Conquers Pride 20 

A Miserable Woman 20 

A Sister’s Vengeance 20 

Leah’s Mistake 20 

A Tom-Boy 20 

Broken Vows, 20 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s 'Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 16 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

511 Poems 30 

BY TIGHE HOPKINS 

’Twixt Love and Duty 20 

BY ARABELLA M. HOPKINSON 

Life’s Fitful Fever 20 

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF 
“ HIS WEDDED WIFE ” 

His Wedded Wife 20 

A Great Mistake 20 

A Fatal Dower 20 

Barbara 20 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks 20 

BY ADAH M. HOWARD 

970 Against Her Will .-0 

993 The Child Wife 10 

A Woman’s Atonement 20 

Irene Gray’s Legacy 20 

Sundered Hearts 20 

Doubly Wronged . 20 

UncleNed’s Cabin 20 

A Blighted Borne 10 

A Mother’s Mistake 20 

A Baunted T-ife 20 

A Desperate Woman 20 

Little Nana 20 

By Mutual Consent. 20 

Little Madeline 20 

Little Sunshine 2fl 

BY MARIE HOV/LAND 

534 Papa’s Own Girl 80 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY 


BY EDWARD HOWLAND 

742 Social Solutions, Part I 10 

747 “ “ Part II 10 

753 “ “ Piirt III 10 

762 “ “ Part IV 10 

765 “ “ Party lO 

774 “ “ Part VI 10 

778 « »* Part VII 10 

782 “ “ Part VI LI 10 

785 “ Part IX 10 

788 ** ■“ PartX 10 

721 “ “ Part XI 10 

726 “ “ Part XII 10 

BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

535 Studies in Civil Service ‘16 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

61 Tom Brown's School Days 20 

186 Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Parts, each . 15 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

784 Les Miacrables, Part 1 20 

781 “ “ Part II 20 

784 “ “ Partin 20 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

109 The Spoopendyke Papers 20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

864 Life of Scott 20 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

869 LifeofHume 10 

BY COL. PRENTISS INGRAHAM 

The Rival Cou:-ins 20 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

147 Ths Sketch Book 20 

i 198 Tales of a Traveller 20 

’ 199 Life and Voyairea of Columbus, 

Part 1 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part II. ...* 20 

224 Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey .. .10 

236 Knickerbocker History of New York. 20 

249 The Crayon Papers 20 

263 The Alhambra 1.5 

272 Conquest of Granada 20 

279 Conquest of Spain 10 

28] Bracebridge Hall 20 

290 Salmagundi 20 

299 Astoria 20 

801 Spanish Voyages 20 

805 A Tonr on the Prairies 10 

•308 Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each ....15 

310 Oliver Goldsmith 20 

311 Captain Bonneville 20 

814 Moorish Chronicles 10 

321 Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies .... 10 

G. P. R. JAMES’ WORKS 

Agnes Sorel 20 

Darnley 20 

BY HARRIET JAY 
17 The Dark Colleen 20 

BY EDWARD JENKINS 

The Secret of Her Life 20 

BY EVELYN K. JOHNSON 
Tangles Unraveled 20 


12 


BY SAMUEL, JOHNSON 

44 Ra8.selas 16 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

7.54 A Moderti MMas . . 20 

BY MRS. EMMA GARRISON JONES 

A Terrible Cr.me 20 

BY JOHN KEATS 

531 Poems 25 

BY EDWARD KELLOGG 

111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

106 Dunalian, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse-Shoe Robin.son, 2 Parts, each .15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

,39 The Hermits 20 

04 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 20 

7'i8 The Hlllyars and Burtons 20 

731 Leighton Court 20 

736 Gootfrey Hamlyn 30 

BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

2.54 Peter the Whaler 20 

322 M ark Sea wort h 20 

324 Round the World 20 

.335 The Young Foresters 20 

337 Saltwater 20 

633 The Midshipman 20 

BY F. KTRBY 

454 The Golden Dog ( Le chien cTor) 40 

BY ANDREW LANG 

The Mark of Cain i 10 

BY A. LA POINTE 

445 The Rival Doctors 20 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 20 

609 A Brighton Night dW 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s I-ove 25 

741 Lorimer and Wife 20 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 10 

798 Prince of the Hundred Sonps 10 

BY MRS. LEITH-ADAM3 

Aunt Hepsy’s Foundling 20 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 20 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorreqner 20 

789 Charles O’Malley. 2 Parts, each 20 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each.. 20 

BY LAURA JEAN LIBBEY 

A Fatal Wooing 20 

BY MARY LINSKILL 

A Lost Son II 


LOVELT.’S LIBRAET 


BY H. W LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 20 

2 Outrc-Mer 20 

482 Poems 20 

BY SAMUEL LOVEE 

163 The Hnppy Man 10 

719 Rory O' More 20 

849 Handy Andy 20 

BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince. . . .20 

BY MRS. H. LOVETT-CAMERON 

927 Pure Gold 20 

BY SIR JOHN LUBBOCK 

1154 The Pleasures of Life 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 Gideon Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flashes 20 

BY EDNA LYALL 

962 Knights-Errant 20 

BY E. LYNN LYNTON 

275 lone Stewart 20 

BY LORD LYTTON 

11 The Coming Race 10 

12 Leila 10 

81 Ernest Maltravcrs 20 

82 The Haunted House 10 

46 Alice: A Sequel to Ernest Maltra- 
vcrs 20 

66 A Strange Story 20 

69 Last Days of Pompeii 20 

81 Zanoni 20 

84 Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each. .15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Lady of Lyons 10 

128 Money 10 

152 Richelieu 1C 

160 Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

176 Pelham 20 

204 Eugene Aram 20 

222 The Disowned 20 

240 Kenelm {’hillingly 20 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 Parts, 

each 20 

217 Deverenx 20 

^0 The Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lncretia 20 

2.55 Last pf the Barons. 2 Parts, each ... 15 

259 The Pari.sinns. 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

289 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine 16 

817 Pausanias 15 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

833 Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY CHARLES MACKAY 

11.37 The Twin Soul 20 

BY KATHERINE S. MACftUOID 

898 Joan Wentworth 20 

Marjorie 20 


BY J. F. MALLOY 

1139 A Modern Magician ..SO 

BY E. MARLITT 

771 The Old Mam’selle's Secret 20 

1053 Gold Elsie 20 

BY G. MARNELL 

Merit versun Money 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman 20 

BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 

903 The Master Passion 20 

904 A Lucky Disappointment ...10 

905 Her l.ord and Master 20 

906 My Own Child ‘<!0 

907 No Intentions 20 

908 Written in Fire 20 

909 A Little Stepson 10 

910 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

931 Why Not ? 20 

9.'j7 My Sister the Actress 20 

938 Captain Norton’s Diary 10 

9;^9 Girls of Feversham 20 

940 The Root of all Evil 20 

9 12 Facing the Footlights 20 

943 Potronel 20 

944 A Star and a Heart 10 

945 Ange 20 

946 A Harvest of Wild Gats 20 

947 The Poison of A-^ps 10 

948 Fair-Haired Alda. 20 

919 The Heir Presumptive 20 

950 Under the Lilies and Roses.. ..... .20 

9.)l Heart of Jane Warner 20 

952 Love's Conflict, Paj’t 1 20 

9.52 Love’s Conflict, Part II 20 

9.53 Phyllida 20 

9.54 Out of His Reckoning. 10 

979 Her World against a Lie 20 

990 Open Sesame 20 

991 Mad Durnaresq 20 

999 Fighting the Air 20 

Peeress and Player 20 

Driven to Bay 20 


The Confessions of Gerald Estcourt,.20 

BY C. MARTIN 

The Russians at the Gates of Herat.. 10 

BY MRS. HERBERT MARTIN 


For a Dream’s Sake 20 

Amor Viucit 20 

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 16 

^54 Loom and Lugger 20 

357 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homt's Abroad ... 15 

363 For Each and For All 15 

372 Hill and Valley 16 

379 The Charmed Sea 15 

.388 Life in the Wilds .16 

395 Sowers not Reapers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 

OWEN MARSTON’S WORKS 

Beauty’s Marriage 20 

A Dark Marriage Morn 26 

Lover and Husband 26 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY. 


BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

104H Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

1047 Sam’s Sweetheart 20 

1048 Sf.ory of a Sin 20 

1049 Cherry Ripe 20 

1050 My Lady Green Sleeves 20 

Found Oat 20 

BY A. MATHEY 

46 Duke of Kan dos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 

BY W. S. MAYO 

70 The Berber 20 

BY C. MAXWELL 

A Story of Three Sistera 20 

BY LOUISE MCCARTHY 

Gabrielle 20 

BY j. H. McCarthy 

116 An Outline of Irish History 10 

BY JUSTIN McCarthy, m.p. 

278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEREDITH 

3S1 Lucile 20 

BY PAUL MERRITT 

Daughters of Eve 20 

MRS. ALEX. MeVEIGH MILLER’S 
WORKS 

A Dreadful Temptation 20 

The Bride of the Tomb 20 

An Old Man’s Darling 20 

Queenie’s Terrible Secret 20 

Jaquelina 20 

Little Golden's Daushter 20 

The Rose and the Lily 20 

Countess Vera 20 

Bonnie Dora 20 

Guy Kenmore’s Wife 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

889 Paradise Lost 20 

1092 Poems 35 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

The Crack of Doom 20 

BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 

1008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage . .10 

BY SUSANNA MOODIE 

1067 Geoffrey Moncton 30 

1068 Flora Lyndsay ! . ! .20 

1074 Roughing it in the Bush .20 

1076 Life in the Backwoods '.'..20 

1085 Life in the Clearings 20 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 Lalla Rookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

BY JOHN MORLEY 

407 Life of Burke 10 


14 


BY J. C. MORRISON 

383 Life of Gibbon 10 

BY EDWARD H. MOTT 

139 Pike County Folks 20 

BY ALAN MUIR 

312 Golden Girls 20 

BY LOUISA MUHLBACH 

1000 Frederick the Great and his Court. .30 

1014 The Daughter of an Empress 30 

1054 Goethe and Schiller 30 

1091 Queen Hortense 30 

BY MAX MULLER 

130 India: What Can It Teach Us? 20 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

436 Miss Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 

Young Mrs. Jardine 20 

Two Marriages 20 

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 

197 By the Gate of the Sea 16 

758 Cynic Fortune 10 

1116 One Traveller Returns 20 

The Way of the World 20 

Rainbow Gold 20 

First Person Singular 20 

Hearts 20 

A Life's Atonement 20 

Val Strange 20 

Aunt Rachel 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY FLORENCE NEELY 

564 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 


BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and Wrong U ses of the Bible . . 20 

BY JOHN NICHOL 


347 Life of B 3 rron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

376 Science at Home 20 

BY MILTON NOBLES 

The Phoenix 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing 20 

592 That Terrible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim 10 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 Noctes Ambrosianae 30 

BY F. E. M. NOTLEY 

1095 From the Other Side 20 

BY WM. O’BRIEN 

O’Hara’s Mission 20 

BY NANNIE P. O’DONOGHUE 

Unfairly Won ;..... .20 

BY ALICE O’HANLON 

A Diamond in the Rough 20 


L0VELL^8 LIBEARY. 


BY GEORGE OHNET 


Olaire and the Forge-Master 20 

BY LAURENCE OLIPHANT 

196 Altiora Peto 20 

BY MRS. OLIPHANT 

124 The Ladies Lindorea 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Lady Mary 10 

602 Oliver’s Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

631 The Son of his Father 20 

920 John: a Love Story 20 

925 A Poor Gentleman 20 

994 Lucy Crofton 10 

The Minister’s Wife 20 

Greatest Heiress in England 20 

A House Divided Against Itself , 20 

Effle Ogilvie 20 

Margaret Maitland 20 

BY MAX O’RELL 

836 John Bull and His Island 20 

469 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

John Bull’s Neighbor 10 

D. O’SULLIVAN’S WORKS 

414 O’Eriscoll of Darra 20 

415 P’amed Fontenoy 20 

416 A Strange Case 20 

417 Mary Mavourneen 20 

418 The Lion of Limerick 20 

419 The Beauty of Benburb. 20 

420 The Maid of Cremona 20 

421 Eviction 21 

602 Eileen Alanna 20 

604 Robert Emmet 20 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda, 2 Parts, each 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each.... 20 

387 Princess Napraxine 25 

675 A Rainy June 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 Othmar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremraa 20 

854 Signa 20 

856 Pascarel 20 

Friendship 20 

Puck, Part 1 20 

Puck, Pai-t II 20 

Tricotrin, Part 1 20 

Tricotrin, Part II. 20 

Chandos, Part 1 20 

Chandos, Part II 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of the Darrells 20 

1135 A Prince of the Blood 20 

Kit ; A Memo’*y 20 

One of the Family 20 

The Heir of the Ages 20 


BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 Life of Milton 10 

BY HENRY PETERSON 

1016 Pemberton 30 

BY ALFRED R. PHILLIPS 

Faust; a Wierd Story 10 

BY F. C. PHILLIPS 

1082 Strange Adventures of Lucy Smith .20 

1083 As in a Looking Glass ... .20 

1084 The Dean and his Daughter 20 

1097 Jack and Three Jills 20 

A Lucky Young Woman 20 

Social Vicissitudes 20 

BY W. PHILLIP 

The Wentworth Mystery 20 

BY C. L. PIRKIS 

A Dateless Bargain 20 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

403 Poems 20 

426 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 

438 The Assignation, and Other Tales. .15 


447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue ... .15 

BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the Modern Scien- 


tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 

391 Homer’s Odyssey 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad ....30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scottish Chiefs, Part I. 20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 

BY C. F. POST AND FRED. C. 
LEUBUCHER 

838 The George-Hewitt Campaign 20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER" 

339 Poems 20 

BY AGNES RAY 

1010 Mrs. Gregory : 20 

BY CHARLES READE 

28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

415 A Perilous Secret 20 

759 Foul Play 20 

773 Put Yourself in his Place 20 

913 Griffith Gaunt. 20 

914 A Terrible Temptation 20 

915 Very Hard Cash 20 

916 It is Never Too Late to Mend 20 

917 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

918 A Woman Hater 20 

919 Readiana 10 

BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 

16 Freckles 20 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 20 

BY HON. JOHN H. RICE 

1177 Mexico, our Neighbor. 


15 


21 


LOVELL^S LIBRAEY. 


BY MRS. J. H. RIDDELL 

1134 The Null's Curse ....20 

Susan Druminuiid 20 

BY “ RITA ” 

65fi Dame Durden 20 

Like Dian's Kiss 20 

1144 Two Bad Blue Eyes 20 

11 JH After Lon*' Grief and Pain 20 

1151 My Lady Coquette 20 

1153 Vivienne 20 

1155 Countess Daphne 20 

1158 Faustine 20 

11(31 Fragoletta 20 

1173 My Lord Conceit 20 

1179 A Sinless Secret 10 

BY SIR H. ROBERTS 

101 Harry Holbrooke 20 

BY G. M. ROBINS 

Keep My Secret . . .! 20 

BY A. M. F. ROBINSON 

134 Arden 15 

F. W. ROBINSON’S WORKS 

The Man She Cared For 20 

The Courting of Mary Smith 20 

A Fair Maid 20 

99 Dark Street, and Miss Gascoigne, by 
Mrs. Riddell 20 

BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 

411 Children of the Abbey 30 


BY JOHN RUSKIN 


407 Sesame and Lilies 10 

505 Crown of Wild Olives 10 

510 Ethics of the I lust 10 

516 Queen of the Air 10 

621 Seven Lamps of Architecture. 20 

637 Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 
ing 15 

642 Stones of Venice. 3 Vols., each 25 

665 Modern Painters, Vol. 1 20 

572 “ Vol. II 20 

677 “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

689 “ “ Vol. IV 25 

608 “ “ Vol. V 25 

698 King of the Golden River 10 

623 Unto this (,a.st 10 

627 Munera Fulveris 15 

637 “ A .1 oy Forever ” 15 

639 The rieasnres of England ».10 

612 The Two Paths 20 

644 Lectures on Art 15 

647 Aratra Pentelici 15 

650 Time and Tide 15 

6(55 Mornings in Florence 15 

668 St. Mark’s Rest 16 

670 Deucalion 15 

673 Art of England .15 

676 Kagle’s Nest 15 

679 “ Our Fathers Have Told Us” 15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Val d’Arno 15 

688 Love’s Meinie 15 

707 Fora Clavigera, Part 1 30 

708 “ “ Parti I .30 

713 “ “ Part III 30 

714 “ r Partly. 80 


ROLLIN’S ANCIENT HISTORY. 


1108 Volume 1 21 

1111 “ II 2(1 

1114 “ III 20 

1117 » IV .20 

1122 “ V 20 

1125 “ VI 20 

1128 " VII 20 

1131 “VIII 20 

BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 

837 Marked “In Haste ” 20 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 
329 Poems «>.«20 

BY MRS. ROWSON 

159 Charlotte Temple lO 

BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 

123 A Sea Queen 20 

•399 John Holdsworth .20 

833 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

8-34 Jack’s Courtship 20 

615 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

616 On ttie Fo’k’sle Head 20 

997 The Golden Hope 20 

1087 The Frozen Pirate 20 

BY DORA RUSSELL 

816 The Broken Seal 20 

BY B. DE ST. PIERRE 

37 Paul and Virginia ,10 

BY G. A. SALA 

Dead Men Tell no Tales, but Live 
Men do 20 

BY GEORGE SAND 

135 The Tower of Percemont 20 

965 The Lilies of Florence 20 

BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

710 Picciola .10 

BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

27 Social Etiquette 16 

BY JOHN SAUNDERS 

Robbing Peter to Pay Paul 20 

BY DR. E. J. SCHELLHOUS 

1094 The New Republic 30 

BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 

341 Schiller’s Poems 20 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 Fleurette 20 

BY ADELINE SERGEANT 

Beyond Recall 10 

Jacobi’s Wife 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

334 Life of Burns 10 

BY FLORA L. SHAW 

A Sea Change 20 

BY MARY W. SHELLEY 
5 Fiankensteia .10 


LOVELL*S LIBRARY, 


BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 


Ivanhue, ‘2 Pari>. eacli 15 

859 Lady of the Lake, with Notes 20 

489 Bride of Lammermoor 20 

490 Black Dwarf 10 

492 Casile Dangerous 15 

493 Legend of Montrose 15 

495 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

499 H**art of Mid-Lotliiaii 30 

602 Waverley 20 

504 Fort n nes of N igel 20 

609 Peveril of the Peak ,30 

615 The Pirate 20 

536 Poetical Works 40 

644 Redgauntlet 25 

551 Woodstock 20 

667 Count Robert of Paris 20 

669 The Abbot 20 

675 Quentin Diirward 20 

581 The Tnlisruan 20 

586 St Ronan s Well 20 

695 Anne of Geierstcin 20 

605 Aunt Margaret’s ilirror 10 

607 Chionicles of the Caiiongate 15 

609 The Monastery 20 

620 GuyManncring 20 

625 Kenilworth 25 

629 The Antiquary 20 

Rob Roy 20 

635 The Betrothed 20 

ft38 Fair Maid of Perth 20 

641 Old Mortality 20 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

649 Complete Poetical Works 30 

BY S. SHELLEY 

191 The Nautz Family 20 

BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE 

832 Sir Percival 10 

BY EDITH SIMCOX 

613 Men, Women, and Lovers 20 

BY GEORGE R. SIMS 

Mary Jane’s Memoirs 20 

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

640 The Partisan SO 

648 Mellichampe 30 

653 The Yemassee SO 

657 Katherine Walton 30 

662 Southward Ho 1 — 30 

671 The Scout 30 

674 The Wigwam and Cabin. 30 

677 Vasconselos SO 

680 Confession 30 

684 Woodcraft ... 30 

687 Richard Hurdis .30 

690 Guy Rivers .30 

693 Border Beagles SO 

697 The Forayers 30 

702 Charlemont 30 

703 Eutavv 30 

706 Beauchampe 30 

BY J. P. SIMPSON 

125 Haunted Hearts 10 

BY A. P. SINNETT 

924 Karma 


BY HAWLEY SMART 

780 Bad to Beat iQ 

1103 Saddle and Sabie 20 

1141 A False Start 20 

BY SAMUEL SMILES 

425 Self-Help 26 

BY A. SMITH 

594 A Summer in Skye 20 

BY GOLDWIN SMITH 

no False Hopes 16 

424 Life of Cowper 10 

BY J. GREGORY SMITH 

65 Selma 16 

BY S. M. SMUCKER 

248 Life of Webster, 2 Parts, each 16 

BY E. SNOW 

The Curse of Langcrfiefd 20 

BY T. W. SPEIGHT 

A Barren Title 10 

BY EMILY SPENDER 

Until the Day Breaks 20 

BY F. SPIELHAGEN 

449 Quisiana 20 

CHARLOTTE M. STANLEY’S 
WORKS 

The Shadow of a Sin 20 

A Waif of the Sea 20 

The Himtsford Fortune 20 

The Secret of a Birth 20 

Jessie Deane 20 

A Golden Mask 20 

Accord an(T Discord 20 

A Death-Bed Marriage 20 

Hearts and Gold 20 

BY JANE STANLEY 

A Daughter of the Gods 20 


BY STARKWEATHER AND 
WILSON 

461 Socialism 10 

BY LESLIE STEPHEN 

396 Life of Pope 10 

401 Life of Johnson 10 

BY STEPNIAK 

173 Underground Russia 20 

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSONl 

767 Kidnapped 20 

768 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 

Hvde 10 

769 Prince Otto 10 

770 The D\namiter 20 

793 New Arabian Nights 20 

819 Treasure Island 29 

921 The Merry Men 29 

1102 The Misadventures of John Nich- 
olson 1® 


BY EUGENE SUE 

772 Mysteries of Paris, 2 Parts, each .. ,20 
776 The Wandering Jew, 2 Parts, each .20 


17 


LOVELL’S 


BY HES3A STRETTON 

729 In Prison and Out 20 

BY JULIAN STURGIS 

1062 Dick’s Wandering 20 

John Mardenent 20 

BY DEAN SWIFT 

68 Gulliver’s Travels 20 

BY CHAS. ALGERNON SWIN- 
BURiNE 

412 Poems 20 

BY J. A. SYMONDS 

361 Life of Shelley 10 

BY H. A. TAINE 

442 Taine's English Literature 40 

BY REV. T. DE WITT TALMAGE 

Great Britain through American 
Spectacles 20 

BY NIKOLAI V. TCHERNUISH- 
COSKY 

1071 A Vital Question 30 

BY GEORGE TEMPLE 

Britta 10 

BY LORD TENNYSON 

446 Poems 40 

BY W. M. THACKERAY 

141 Henry Esmond 20 

143 Denis Duval ,.20 

148 Catherine ...10 

166 Lovel, the Widower 10 

164 Barry Lyndon 20 

172 Vanity Fair 30 

193 History of Pendennis, 2 Parts, each,. 20 

211 The Newcomes, 2 Parts, each 20 

220 Book of Snobs 10 

229 Paris Sketches 20 

2^1.5 Adventures of Philip, 2 Parts, each ..15 

238 The Virginians, 2 Parts, each 20 

252 Critical Reviews, etc 10 

256 Eastern Sketches 10 

262 Fatal Boots, etc 10 

264 The Four Georges 10 

280 Fitzboodle Papers, etc 10 

283 Roundabout Papers 20 

285 A Legend of the Rhine, etc 10 

286 Cox’s Diary, etc 10 

292 Irish Sketches, etc 20 

296 Men’s Wives 10 

300 Novels by Eminent Hands 10 

303 Character Sketches, etc 10 

304 Christmas Books 20 

306 Ballads 15 

307 Yellowplush Papers ;.,,.10 

809 Sketches and Travels in London. . . .10 

313 English Humorists 15 

816 Great Ho.ggarty Diamond 10 

820 The Ro.se and the Ring 10 

BY ANNIE THOMAS 

Called to Account 20 

BY BERTHA THOMAS 

Elizabeth’s Fortune 20 


LIBRARY. 

BY JUDGE D. P. THOMPSON 


21 The Green Mountain Boys 20 

BY THEODORE TILTON 

' 94 Tempest Tossed, Part 1 20 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part II 29 

BY COUNT LYOF TOLSTOI 

1110 My Husband and 1 10 

1113 Polikouchka .10 

1124 Two Generations 10 

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE 

133 Mr. Scarborough’s Family, 2 Parts, 

each 15 

251 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope.20 

344 Life of Thackeray 10 

367 An Old Man’s Love 16 

BY F. A. TUPPER 

895 Moonshine 20 

WM. MASON TURNER’S WORKS . 

Maggie; or, The Loom Girl of Lo- 
well 20 

Gertrude, the Governess 20 

BY SARAH TYTLER 

Buried Diamonds 20 

BY GENEVIEVE ULMAR 

Cruel as trie Grave .20 

BY DENZIL VANE 

Like Lucifer 20 

BY COUNT PAUL VASILI 

Berlin Society 10 

BY J. VAN LENNEP 

4’68 The Count of Talavera 20 

BY JULES VERNE 

34 800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 

35 The Cryptogram .10 

154 Tour of the World in Eighty Days. .20 
166 .?(), 000 Leagues Under the Sea .. ..20 

185 The Mysterious Island, 3 Parts, each.15 

BY QUEEN VICTORIA 

355 More Leaves from a Life in the High- 
lands 16 

BY VIRGIL 

640 Poems 25 

BY L. B. WALFORD 

10.55 Mr. Smith 20 

1'.56 The History of a Week 10 

1057 The Buhj’'B Grandmother 20 

10.58 Troublesome Daughter 20 

1059 Cousins 20 

BY GEORGE WALKER 

13 The Three Spaniards 20 

BY A. H. WALL 

Dregs and Froth 20 

BY SAMUEL WARREN 

935 Ten Thousand a Year, Part 1 20 

“ “ “ PniT. TT . sn 


“ Part m.... 20 


Lovell’s library. 


BY PROF. A. W. WARD 

413 Life of Chaucer 10 

BY F. WARDEN 

767 Doris’ Fortune 10 

980 At the World’s Mercy 10 

981 The House on the Marsh 20 

982 Deldee 20 

983 A Prince of Darkness 20 

1073 Scheherazade 20 

A Vagrant Wife 20 

BY DESHLER WELCH 

427 Life of Grover Cleveland 20 

BY E. WERNER 

614 At a High Price 20 

734 Vineta 20 

BY WILLIAM WESTALL 

1157 A Queer Race 20 


BY KATHARINE WYLDE 


An Ill-Regulated Mind 18 

BY EDMUND YATES 

723 Running the Gauntlet 20 

724 Broken to Harness 20 

A Man of the World 20 

BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 

858 A Modern Telemachus 20 

899 Love and Life 20 

Chantry House 20 

The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest 20 

The Two Sides of the Shield 20 

My Young Alcides 20 

BY ERNEST A. YOUNG 

606 Barbara’s Rival 20 

G91 i Woman’s Honor 20 


BY MRS. WHITCHER 


MISCELLANEOUS 


194 Widow Bedott Papers 20 

BY J. G. WHITTIER 

460 Poems 20 

BY VIOLET WHYTE 

963 Her Johnnie 20 

BY W. M. WILLIAMS 

80 Science in Short Chapters 20 

BY N. P. WILLIS 

352 Poems 20 

BY C. F. WINGATE 

830 Twilight Club Tracts 20 

BY JOHN STRANGE WINTER 

1163 Bootle’s Baby 10 

1104 Army Society 10 

11(55 Beautiful .lira 20 

1168 Cavalry Life 20 

1169 In Quarters with the 25th Dragoons.lO 

1170 Regimental Legends 20 

HAZEL WOOD’S WORKS 

An ( niy Daughter 20 

C*n the Quicksands 20 

A Terrible Tangle 20 

Her Son’s Wife 20 

Two Wives 20 

The Tranif)’s Daughter 20 

Were They Married ? 20 

Poor Nell 20 

Little Bessie 20 

BY MRS. HENRY WOOD 

54 East Lynne 20 

902 The Mystery 20 

1093 Lady Grace 20 

1100 A Life’s Secret ; ..20 


26 Life of Washington 20 

47 Baron Munchausen 10 

63 The Vendetta, by Balzac 20 

60 Margaret and her Bridesmaids 20 

72 Queen of the County 20 

98 The Gypsy Queen 20 

118 A New Lease of Life 20 

109 Beyond the Sunrise 20 

181 Whist, or Bumblepuppy? 10 

360 Modern Christianity a Civilized 

Heathenism 15 

265 Plutarch’s Lives, 5 Parts, each 20 

291 Famous Funny Fellows 20 

323 Life of Paul Jones 20 

832 Every-Daj’ Cook-Book 20 

340 Claj-ton’s Rangers 20 

385 Swiss Family Robinson 20 

386 Childhood of the World 10 

397 Arabian Nights’ Entertainments 25 

402 How He Resached the Vthite House. 25 

433 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 

434 Typh allies Abbey 25 

483 Tiie Child lluntors 15 

857 A Wilful Young Woman 20 

966 The Story of Our Mess 20 

91)7 The Three Bummers 20 

vIOlO Sipur Louise 20 

Little Golden 20 

The Eyr>e. and the Mystery of a 

Young Girl 20 

Circurnstan ti al E vidence 10 

Majorie’s Child 20 

The Beautiful Rivals 10 

Fourteen Years with Adelina Patti.. 10 
Love and Mirage, or Waiting on an 

Island 10 

Life and Memoirs of U. S. Grant... 10 

Curly, and My Poor Wife. 10 

Griselda *20 

Witness My Hand 10 


19 


LOVELL’S LtBRARY 


LA.TES'i: ISSUES, 


1183 Mr. Meeson’s Will, by Haggard. .20 
11S4 Trte Fatal Taree, by Braddun . . .20 
1185 A Mere Caild, by Mrs. Walford.. .20 
HS5 Tae HodoraDle Mrs. Vereker, by 

“Tbe Ductless” 20 

1137 Bootle’s Caiidren, by J. S. Winter. 10 
H8S Robert Elsinere, by Mrs. Humph 
rey Ward 60 

1189 Weavers and Weft, by Braddon...20 

1190 Golden Gaces, by Bertha M Clay.. 2^ 

1191 The Silent Snore ; or. The Mystery 

of St. Jamei Park, by Burton 20 

1192 Jacohi’s Wife, by A. Sargeant 20 

1193 A Guiding Star, bj Bertna M. Ciay.2j 

1194 A Dead Past, by Mrs. H. Lovett- 

Cameron 20 

1196 The Great Amherst Mystery, by 
Walter Hubhell 25 

1196 A Nameless Sin, by B M Clay 20 

1197 The Pride of the Paddock, by 

Hawley Smart 10 

1193 A Tborn in Her Heart, by Bertha 
M. Clay 20 

1199 A Mad Love, by Bertha M. Clay... 20 

1200 Mai wa’s Revenge, by Haggard — 20 

1201 His Wife’s Judgment, by Bertha 

M. Clay 20 

1202 The Mystery of a Turkish Bath, by 

“Rita” 10 

1203 The Story of an African Farm, by 

Ralph Iron (Olive Schreiner) 25 

1204 Weeping Ferry, by George Halse 20 
■1205 Two Marriages, by Miss Mulock..20 

1206 The Great Worn, by J. Hatton ...20 

1207 Young Mrs. Jardine. byMuloek .20 
1203 Black Blood, by George M. Fennri20 

1209 Tue Confesdons of Gerald Est- 

court, by Florence Marryat 20 

1210 Driven to Bay, by F. Marryat 20 

1211 A Strange Message, by D. Russell.20 

1212 A Secret Inheritance, by B. L. 

Fa jeon • ^20 

1213 A Vagrant Wife, by F. Warden. ..20 

1214 The Silverado Squatters, by Robert 

Loul? Stevenson 10 

1215 Tue Rival Cousins, by Col. Prentiss. 

Ingraham ... ..*-20 

1216 In One Town, by E Downey 20 

1217 Elizabeth’s Fortune, by Thomas. .20 

1218 Oni, by Wenona Gilman 20 

1219 Amor Vincit, by Mrs. H. Martin.. 20 

1220 Republican Song Book 25 

1221 The Elect Lady, by G. Macdonald.20 

1222 Puck, Part I., by Onida 20 

Puck, Part II , by Ouida 20 

1223 A Diteless Bargain, by PI rkis ...20 

1224 Aunt Hepsey’s Foundling, by Mrs. 

Leith Adams 20 

1225 A Terrible Legacy, by Appleton. .20 


0 123^1 
o.^i^S^h 
D 


1226 Trlcotrin, Part I., by Ouida 20 

Tilcotrin, Paitn,by Ouida 20 

1227 The Eavesdropper, by James Payn 10 

1228 Chandos. Part I., by Ouida 20 

Chandos, Pait JI , by Ouida 20 

1229 Mary Jane's Memoirs, by Sims.. .20 

1230 Stella the Star, by W. Gilman 20 

istressand Maid, by Miss Mulock 20 
he Flying Dutchman; or. The 
Death Ship, by W. Claik Russell 20 

1233 A Cnoice of Chance, by Fairchild 20 

1234 More True Than Truthful, by Mrs. 

P M Plqrtp 20 

1235 $5,000 Reward, by Fleming 25 

1236 A Struggle for Love, by Fairchild. 20 

1237 Wild Margaret, by G. Fleming 26 

1238 General Utility, by Gilman 20 

1239 A Fatal Wooing, by L J Litbey. 25 

1240 A Step in the Dark, by Kate Eyre. 20 

1241 Little Jewel, by Guinevere 20 

1242 Little Sunshine, by A. M. Howard 20 

1243 Clarice ; or. Sheathed in Velvet, by 

Wenona Gilman 20 

1244 Under-Currents, “The Duchess” 20 

1245 A Dreadful Temptation, by Mrs, 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

1246 The Bride of the Tomb, by Mrs. 

Alex McVeigh Miller 25 

1247 An Old Man’s Darling, by Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller ...25 

1248 Queenie’s Terrible Secret, by Mrs 

Alex McVeigh Miller 25 

1249 Jaquelina, by Mrs. Alex. McVeigh 

Miller 25 

1250 Little Golden’s Daughter, by Mrs 

Alex. McVeigh Miller . .25 

1251 The Rose and the Lily, by Mrs. 

Alex. McVeigh Miller 25 

1252 Countess Vera, by Mrs. Alex. 

McVeigh Miller 25 

1253 Bonnie Dora, by Mrs. Alex. Mc- 

Veigh Miller 26 

1254 Guy Kenmore’s Wife, by Mrs. 

Alex. !McVeigh Miller 25 

1255 A Recoiling Vengeance, by F. 

Barrett 20 

fl256 Life’s Fitful Fever, by Hopkinson 20 

1257 False, by Geraldine Fleming 25 

1253 A Sinless Crime, by G. Fleming... 25 
12.'^9 Lola Dale’s Fortune, by Fleming. .25 

1260 Who Was the Heir? by Fleming. .25 

1261 Only a Girl's Love, by G. Fleming.25 

1262 Countess Isabel, by G. Fleming.. 25 

1263 How He Won Her, by G. Fleming 25 

1264 Sunshine and Gloom, by FI mlng 25 

1265 A Sister’s Sacrifice, by Fleming... 25 

1266 A Terrible Secret, by G. Fleming.25 

1267 Slaves of the Ring, by Fleming. . .25 
1263 Entrapped, by Geraldine Fleming.25 


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COLONEL QUAEITCIL V.G 


CHAPTEK I. 

HAEOLD QUAEITCH MEDITATES. 

There are some things and faces which, when felt or seen 
for the first time, project themselves upon the mind like a 
)mn image on a sensitive plate, and there remain unalterably 
fixed. To take the case of a face ; we may never see it again, 
)r it may become the companion of our life, but there the 
ncture is, just as we first knew it — the same smile, the same 
ook, unaltering and unalterable, reminding us in the midst 
•)f change of the absolutely indestructible nature of eveiy ex- 
perience, act, and aspect of our life. For that which has been 
is, since the past knows no change and no corruption, but 
iives eternally in its frozen and completed self. 

These are somewhat large words to be born of small mat- 
ter, but they rose up spontaneously in the mind of a soldierly- 
looking man who was leaning, on the particular evening when 
this history opens, over a gate in an eastern country lane, 
staring vacantly at a ripe field of corn. 

He was a peculiar and rather battered looking individual, 
apparently over forty years of_age, and yet bearing upon him 
that unmistakable stamp of dignity and self-respect which, if 
it does not exclusively belong to, is yet one of the distinguish- 
ing attributes of the English gentleman. In face he was ugly 
— ^^110 other word can express ^ Here were not the long 
mustachios, the almond eyes, the aristocratic air, of the colonel 
of fiction — for our dreamer was a colonel. These were — 
alas, that the truth should be so plain !— represented by 
rather scrubby, sandy-colored whiskers, small but rather 
kindly blue eyes, a low broad forehead, with a deep line run- 
ning across it from side to side, something like that to be 
seen upon the bust of Julius Csesar, and a long thin nose. 
One good featui’e, however, he did possess, a mouth of such 


4 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


sweetness and beauty that, set as it was above a very square 
and manly-loohing chin, it had the air of being ludicrously 
out of place. “Uinph! ” said his old aunt, Mrs. Massey (who 
had just died and left him what she had), on the occasion of 
her first introduction to him, five- and- thirty years before — 
“ Umph ! Nature meant to make a pretty girl of you, and 
changed her mind after she had finished the mouth. Well, 
never mind ; better be a plain man than a pretty woman. 
There, go along, boy ; I like your ugly face.” 

Nor was the old lady peculiar in this respect, for, plain as 
the countenance of Colonel Harold Quaritch undoubtedly 
was, people found something very taking about it when once 
they got used to its rugged air and stern regulated expres- 
sion. What that something was it would be hard to define ; 
but perhaps the nearest approach to the truth would be to 
describe it as a light of purity which, notwithstanding the 
popular idea to the contrary, is to be found quite as often 
upon the faces of men as upon those of women. Any person 
of discernment in looking at Colonel Quaritch must have felt 
that he was in the presence of a good man, not a prude or a 
milksop, but a man who had attained to vii’tue by thought 
and struggle that had left their mark upon his face, a man 
whom it would not be well to tamper with, and one to be 
respected by all, and feared of evil-doers. Men felt this, and 
he was popular among those who knew him in his service, 
though not in any hail-fellow-well-met kind of way. But 
among women he was not popular. As a rule they both feared 
and disliked him. His presence jarred upon the frivolity of 
the lighter members of their sex, who dimly realized that his 
nature was antagonistic, and the more solid ones could not 
understand him. Perhaps this was the reason why Colonel 
Quaritch had never married, had never even had a love affair 
since he was five-and-twenty. 

And yet it was of a woman’s face that he was thinking as 
he leant over the gate, and looked at the field of yellowing 
corn, undulating like a golden sea beneath the pressure of 
the wind. 

Colonel Quaritch had twice in his life been at Honham be- 
fore the present time, when he had come to abide there for 
good and all — once ten and once five years ago. His old 
aunt, Mrs. Massey, had a place in the village — a very small 
place — called Honham Cottage, or Molehill, and he had on 
those two occasions been down to stay with her. Now Mrs. 
Massey was dead and buried, and had left him the property, 
and he had given up his profession, in which he had no farther 


COLONEL qUARITCH, Y.C. 


5 


prospects, and come to live at Honliam. This was his first 
evening in the place, for he had arrived by the last train on 
the previous night. All day he had been busy trying to get 
the house a little straight, and now, thoroughly tired of the 
task, he was refreshing himself by leaning over a gate. It is, 
though a great many people will not believe it, one of the 
most delightful refreshments in the world. 

And then it was, as he leant over the gate, that the image 
of a woman’s face rose before his mind as it had been contin- 
ually rising for the last five years. It was five years since he 
had seen it, and those five years he had spent in India and 
is, with the exception of six months which he had 
passed in hospital, as the result of an Arab spear-thrust in 
the thigh. It had risen before him in all sorts of places and 
at all sorts of times, in his sleep, in his waking moments, at 
mess, out shooting, and even once in the hot rush of battle. 
He remembered it well. It was at El Teb. It happened that 
stern necessity forced him to shoot a man with his pistol. 
The bullet cut into the spine of his enemy, and with a few 
convulsions he died. He watched him die ; he could not 
help doing so ; there was some fascination in following the 
act of his own hand to its dreadful conclusion ; and indeed 
conclusion and commencement vvere very near together. The 
terror of the sight, the terror of what in defence of his own 
life he had been forced to do, revolted him even in the heat 
of the fight, and then, even then, over that ghastly, agony- 
distorted face, another face had spread itself like a mask, 
blotting it out from view — that woman’s face. And now again 
it re-arose, inspiring him with the rather recondite reflections 
as to the immutability of things and impressions with which 
this domestic record opens. 

Five years is a good stretch in a man’s journey through the 
world. Many things happen to us in that time. If a thought- 
ful man were to set to work to record all the impressions 
that impinge upon his mind during that period, he would fill 
a libraiw with volumes ; the mere tale of its events would fur- 
nish a shelf. And yet how small they are to look back upon ! 
It seemed but the other day th^he had been leaning over 
this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl dressed in 
black, with a spray of honeysuckle stuck in her girdle and a 
stick in her hand, walking leisurely down the lane. There 
was something about the girrs'air that had struck him while 
she was yet a long way oft^ — a dignity and a grace, and a set 
of the shoulders, and then as she came nearer he saw the soft 
dai’k eyes and the waving brown haii’ that contrasted so 


6 


COLONEL QUARITCn, V.C. 


strangely and effectively with the pale and striking face. It 
was not a beautiful face, for the mouth was too large, and the 
nose was not as straight as it might have been, but there was 
a power about the broad brow and a force and solid nobility 
stamped upon the features which had impressed him strangely. 
Just as she arrived opposite to where he was standing, a gust 
of wind, for there was a stiff breeze, had blown the lady’s hat 
off, taking it right over the hedge, and he, as in duty bound, 
had scrambled into the field and fetched it for her, and she 
had thanked him with a quick smile and a lighting up of the 
brown eyes, and then passed on with a bow. 

Yes, with a little bow she had passed on, and he had 
watched her departing down the long level drift, till she 
melted into the stormy sunset light, and was gone. When he 
returned to the cottage he had described her to his old aunt, 
and asked who she might be, to learn that her name was Ida 
De la Molle, which sounded like a name out of a novel, the 
only daughter of the old Squire who lived at Honharn Castle. 
And then next day he had departed to India, and saw Miss 
De la Molle no more. 

And now he wondered what had become of her. Proba- 
bly she was married ; so striking a person w'ould be almost 
sure to attract the notice of men. And after all what could 
it matter to him ? He was not a marrying man, and women, 
as a class, had little attraction for him ; indeed, he disliked 
them. It has been said that he had never mariied, and 
never even had a love affair since he was five-and-twenty, and 
this was true enough. But though he was not married, he 
once, before he was five-and-twenty, had very nearly taken 
that step. It was twenty years ago now, and nobody quite 
knew the histor}", for in twenty years many things are fortu- 
nately forgotten. But there was a history, and a scandal, 
and the marriage was broken off almost on the very day be- 
fore it was to have taken place. And after that it leaked 
out in the neighborhood — it was in Essex, near Romford — 
that the young lady, who, by the way, was a large heiress, 
had gone off her head, presumably with grief, and been. con- 
fined in an asylum, where was presumed still to remain. 

Perhaps it was the thinking of this one woman’s face, the 
woman he had once seen walking down the drift, her figure 
limned out against the stormy sky, that led him to think of 
the other face — the face hidden in the mad-house. At any 
rate, with a sigh, or rather a groan, he swung himself round 
from the gate and began walking homeward at a brisk pace. 

The drift that he was following was known as the mile 


COLONEL qUARITCE, KC, 


7 


drift, and bad in ancient times formed tbe approach to the 
gates of Honbam Castle, the seat of the ancient and honora- 
ble family of De la Molle (sometimes written “ Delamol ’’ in 
history and ancient writings). Honbam Castle was now 
nothing but a ruin, with a manor-house built out of the wreck 
on one side of the square, and the broad way that led to it 
from the high-road which ran from Boisingham,* the local 
country town, was a drift or grass lane. 

Colonel Quaritch followed this drift till he came to the 
high-road, and then turned to the left. A few minutes’ walk 
brought him to a drive opening out of the main road on the 
left as he faced toward Boisingham. This drive, which was 
some three hundred yards long, led up a rather sharp slope 
to his own place, Honham Cottage, or Molehill as the vil- 
lagers called it, a title calculated to give a keen impression of 
a neat spick and span red brick villa with a slate roof. As a 
matter of fact, however, it was nothing of the sort, being a 
building of the fifteenth century, as a glance at its massive 
flint walls was sufficient to show. In ancient times there had 
been a large abbey at Boisingham, two miles away, which, as 
the records show, in the fifteenth century, sufiered terribly 
from an outbreak of the plague. After this the monks ob- 
tained, by grant from the De la Molle of the day, ten acres of 
land, known as the Molehill, and so named either on account 
of its resemblance to a mole-hill, of which more presently, or 
after the family. On this elevated spot, which was supposed 
to be peculiarly healthy, they built the little house now 
known as Honham Cottage, whereto to fly when next the 
plagTie should visit them. 

And as they built it, so, with some slight additions, it. had 
remained to this day, for in those ages men did not skimp 
their flint and oak and mortar. It was a beautiful little spot, 
upon the flat top of a swelling hill, which comprised the ten 
acres of grazing-ground originally granted, and was, w'on- 
derful to say, to this day the most magnificently timbered 
piece of gi-ound in the country-side. For on the ten acres of 
grass land there were over fifty great oaks, some of them pol- 
lards of the most enormous antiquity, and others w^hich had 
originally, no doubt, grown veiy close together, fine upstand- 
ing trees with a wonderful length and girth of bole. This 

* Said to have been so named after the Boissey family, whose heir- 
ess, a De la Molle married in the fourteenth century. As, however, 
the town of Boisingham is mentioned by one of the old Saxon chroni 
clers, this does not seem very probable. No doubt the family took 
their name from the town or hamlet, not the town from the family. 


8 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.O. 


place old Mrs. Massey, Colonel Qaaritcli’s aunt, had bougdit 
nearly thirty years before, when she became a widow ; and 
now it had, together with a modest income of two hundred a 
year, passed to him under her will. 

Shaking himself clear of his sad thoughts, Harold Quaritch 
turned round at his own front door to contemplate the scene. 
The long, single-storied house stood, as has been said, at the 
top of the rising land, and to the south and west and east 
commanded as beautiful a view as is to be seen in that coun- 
ty. There, a mile or so away to the south, situated iii the 
midst of grassy grazing-grounds, flanked on either side by still 
perfect towers, frowned the massive gateway of the old Nor- 
man castle. Then, to the west, almost at the foot of the 
Molehill, the ground broke away in a deep bank clothed with 
timber, which led the eye down by slow descents into the 
beautiful valley of the Ell. Here the silver river wound its 
gentle way through lush and poplar-bordered marshes, where 
the cattle stand knee-deep in flowers ; past quaint old wooden 
mill-houses, through Boisingham Old Common, windy-look- 
ing even now, and brightened here and there Avith a dash of 
golden gorse, till it was lost in the picturesque cluster of red- 
tiled roofs that marked the ancient town. Look which way 
he would the view was lovely, and equal to any to be found 
in the eastern counties, Avbere the scenery is tine enough in 
its own way, whatever people, Avliose imaginations are so weak 
that they require a moLtntain and a torrent to excite them 
into activity, may choose to say to the contrary. 

Behind the house to the north there was no view, and for a 
good reason, for here in the very middle of the back garden 
rose a mound of large size and curious shape, Avhich com- 
pletely shut the landscape out. What this mound, which 
may perhaps have covered half an acre of ground, Avas, no- 
body had any idea. Some learned folk said that it Avas a 
Saxon tumulus, a presumption to Avhich its ancient name, 
“Dead Man’s Mount,” seemed to give color. Other folk, 
however, yet more learned, declared that it Avas an ancient 
British dwelling, and pointed triumphantly to a holloAV at the 
top, Avhereiu the ancient Britishers were supposed to have 
moved, lived, and had their being, which must, urged the 
other party, have been a A'ery damp one. Thereon the late 
Mrs. Missey, avIio Avas a British dwellingite, proceeded to 
show Avith much triumph how they had lived in the hole, by 
building a huge mushroom-shaped roof over it, and thereby 
turning it into a summer-house, Avhich, owing to unex- 
pected difficulties in the construction of the roof, cost a great 


COLONEL qUARITCn, V.C. 


9 


deal of money. But as the roof was slated, and as it was 
found necessary to pave the hole with tiles and cut surface 
drains in it, the result did not clearly prove its use as a dwell- 
ing-place before the Roman conquest. Nor did it make a very 
good summer-house. Indeed, it now served as a store-place 
for the gardeners and for rubbish generally. 


CHAPTER n. 

THE COLONEL MEETS THE SQUIRE. 

Suddenly, as Colonel Quaritch was contemplating these 
various views, and reflecting that on the whole he had done 
well to come and live at Honham Cottage, he was startled 
by a loud voice saluting him from about twenty yards dis- 
tance, with such a peculiar vigor that he fairly jumped. 

“ Colonel Quaritch, I believe,” said, or rather shouted, the 
voice from somewhere down the drive. 

“ Yes,” answered the Colonel, mildly ; ‘‘here I am.” 

“ Ah, I thought it was you. Always tell a military man, 
you know. Excuse me, but I am resting for a minute ; this 
last pull is an uncommonly stiff one. I always used to tell 
my dear old friend Mrs. Massey that she ought to have the 
hill cut away a bit just here. Well, here goes for it,” and 
after a few heavy steps the visitor emerged from the shadow 
of the trees into the sunset light which was playing on the 
terrace before the house. 

Colonel Quaritch- glanced up curiously to see who the 
owner of the great voice might be, and his eyes lit upon as 
fine a specimen of humanity as he had seen for a long while. 
The man was old, as his white hair showed — seventy, perhaps 
— but that was the only sign of decay about him. He was a 
splendid man, broad and thick and strong, with a keen quick 
eye, and a face sharply chiselled, and clean-shaved, of the 
stamp which in novels is generally known as aristocratic — a 
face that, in fact, showed both birth and breeding. Indeed, 
as, clothed in loose tweed garments and a gigantic pair of 
top boots, his visitor stood there, leaning on his long stick 
and resting himself after breasting the hill, Harold Quaritch 
thought to himself that he had never seen a more perfect 
siDecimen of the typical English country gentleman — as the 
English country gentleman used to be. 

How do you do, sir, how do you do ? my name is De la 


10 


COLONEL qUARITCE, V.C. 


Molle. My man George, who knows everybody’s business 
except his own, told me that you had arrived here, so I 
thought that I would walk round and do myself the honor of 
making your acquaintance.” 

“ This is very kind of you,” said the Colonel. 

“Not at all. If you only knew how uncommonly dull it is 
dowm here you would not say that. The place isn’t what it 
used to be when I was a boy. There are plenty of rich peo- 
ple about, but they are not the same stamp of people. It 
isn’t what it used to be in more ways than one,” and the old 
Squire gave something like a sigh, and thoughtfully removed 
his white hat, out of which a dinner napkin and two pocket- 
handkerchiefs fell to the ground, in a fashion that reminded 
Colonel Quaritch of the climax of a conjuring trick. 

“You have droj^ped some — some linen,” he said, stooping 
down to pick the mysterious articles up. 

“Oh, yes, thank you,” answered his visitor. “I find the 
sun a little hot at this time of the year. There is nothing 
like a few handkerchiefs or a tow'el to keep it off,” and he 
rolled the mass of napery into a ball, and cramming it back 
into the crown, replaced the hat on his head in such a fashion 
that about eight inches of white napkin hung down behind. 
“ You must have felt it in Egypt,” he went on — “the sun, I 
mean. It’s a bad climate, that Egypt, as I have good reason 
to know,” and he pointed again to his white hat, which, as 
Harold Quaritch now observed for the first time, was en- 
circled by a broad black band. 

“Ah, I see,” said he. “I suppose that you have had a 
loss?” 

“ Yes, sir ; a very heavy loss.” 

Now Colonel Quaritch had never heard that Mr. De la 
Molle had more than one child, Ida De la Molle, the young 
lady whose face had remained so strongly fixed in his mem- 
ory, although he had scarcely spoken to her on that one 
occasion five long years ago. Could it be possible that she 
had died in Egypt? The idea sent a tremor of fear through 
him, though of course there was no real reason why it should. 
Deaths are so common. 

“ Not — not Miss De la Molle ? ” he said, nervously, adding, 
“I had the pleasure of seeing her once, a good many years 
ago, when I was stopping here for a few days with my aunt.” 

“ Oh no, not Ida. She is. alive and well, thank God ! Her 
brother James. He w’ent all through that wretched war 
which we owe to Mr. Gladstone, as I say, though I don’t 
know what your politics are, and then caught a fever, or, as 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


11 


I think, got touched by the sun, and died on his way home. 
Poor boy ! He was a fine fellow, Colonel Quaritch, and my 
only son, but very reckless. Only a month or so before he 
died I wrote to him to be careful always to put a towel in his 
helmet, and he answered, in that flippant sort of way that he 
had, that he w'as not going to turn himself into a dirty 
clothes bag, and that he rather liked the heat than otherwise. 
Well, he’s gone, poor fellow, in the service of his country, 
like many of his ancestors before him, and there’s an end of 
him.” 

And again the old man sighed, heavily this time. 

“And now, Colonel Quaritch,” he w^ent on, shaking off his 
oppression with a curious rapidity that was characteristic of 
him, “what do you say to coming up to the castle for your 
dinner ? You must be in a mess here, and I expect that old 
Mrs. Jobson, whom my man George tells me you have got to 
look after 3^ou, will be glad enough to be rid of you for to- 
night. What do you say ? Take the place as you find it, 
you know. I know that there is a leg of mutton for dinner, 
if there is nothing else, because, instead of minding his own 
business, I saw George going off to Boisingham to fetch it 
this morning. At least that is what he said that he was 
going for ; just an excuse to gossip and idle, I fancy.” 

“Well, really,” said the Colonel, “3^011 are very kind; but 
I don’t think that my dress clothes are unpacked yet.” 

“ Dress clothes ! Oh, never mind yoar dress clothes. Ida 
will excuse you, I dare say. Besides, you have no time to 
dress. By Jove, it’s nearly seven o’clock ; we must be off, if 
3"ou are coming.” 

The Colonel hesitated. He had intended to dine at home, 
and being a methodical-minded man, did not like altering his 
plans. Also he was, like most old military men, very punctili- 
ous about his dress and personal appearance, and objected 
to going out to dinner in a shooting coat. But all this not- 
withstanding, a feeling that he did not quite understand, and 
that it would have puzzled an American novelist to analyze — 
something between restlessness and curiosity, with a dash of 
magnetic attraction thrown in — got the better of his scruples, 
and he went. 

“Well, thank you,” he said ; “if you are sure that Miss De 
la 'Molle will not mind, I will come. Just allow me to tell 
Mrs. Jobson.” 

“That’s right,” halloaed the Squire after him. “ I’ll meet 
you at the back of the house. We had better go through the 
fields.” 


12 


COLONEL qUARlTCn, Y.O, 


Bj the time that the Colonel, having informed his house- 
keeper that he should not want any dinner, and hastily 
brushed his not too luxuriant locks, had reached the garden 
that lay behmd the house, the old gentleman was nowhere to 
be seen. Presently, however, a loud halloa from the top of 
the tumulus-like hill announced his whereabouts. Wonder- 
ing what the old gentleman could be doing up there, Harold 
Quaritch walked up the steps that led to the sumnnit of 
the mound, and found him standing at the entrance to 
the mushroom-shaped summer-house, contemplating the 
view. 

“ There, Colonel,” he said, “ there’s a perfect view for you. 
Talk about Scotland and the Alps ! Give me a view of the 
valley of Ell from the top of Dead Man’s Mount on an 
autumn evening ; I never want to see anything finer. I have 
always loved it from a boy, and alwa^^s shall so long as I live. 
Look at those oaks, too. There are no such trees in the 
country that I know of. The old lady, your aunt, was won- 
derfully fond of them. I hope,” he went on in a tone of 
anxiety — “ I hope that you don’t mean to cut any of them 
down? ” 

“ Oh no,” said the Colonel ; I should never think of such 
a thing.” 

“ That’s right. Never cut down a good tree if you can 
help it. I’m sorry to say, however,” he added, after a j)ause, 
“that I have been forced to cut down a good many m3’’self. 
Queer place this, isn’t it ? ” he continued, dropping the sub- 
ject of the trees, which was evidently a painful one to him. 
“ Dead Man’s Mount is what the people about here call it, 
and that is what they called it at the time of the Conquest, 
as I can prove to you from ancient writings. I always be- 
lieved that it was a tumulus, but of late years a lot of these 
clever people have been taking their oath that it is an ancient 
British dwelling, as though ancient. Britons, or any one else, 
for that matter, could live in a kind of drain-hole. But they 
got on the soft side of your old aunt — who, by- th e-way, beg- 
ging your pardon, was a wonderfully obstinate old lady w'hen 
once she got an idea into her head — and so she set to work 
and built this slate mushroom over it, and one way or an- 
other, it cost her two hundred and fifty pounds. Dear me ! 
I shall never forget her face when she saw the bill.” And 
the old gentleman burst out in a Titanic laugh, such as 
Harold Quaritch had not heard for many a long day. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “it is a queer spot, I think that I 
must have a dig at it one day.” 


OOLOnEL QUARITCH, F.(7. 


IS 


“ By Jove ! ” said the Squire, “ I never thought of that. 
It would be worth doing. Hulloa ! it is twenty minutes past 
seven, and we dine at half past. I shall catch it from Ida. 
Come on, Colonel Quaritch ; you don’t know what it is to 
have a daughter. A daughter, when one is late for dinner, is 
a serious thing for any man.” And he started off down the 
hill in a hurry. 

Very soon, however, he seemed to forget the terrors in 
store, and strolled along, stopping now and again to admire 
some particular oak or view ; chatting all the while in a 
discursive manner, which, though it was somewhat aimless, 
was by no means without its charm. He was a capital 
companion for a silent man like Harold Quaritch, who liked 
to hear other people talk, though some people found him a 
somewhat tiresome one. 

In this way they got down the slope, and passing through 
a couple of wheat fields, came to a succession of broad mead- 
ows, somewhat sparsely timbered, through which the foot- 
path ran right up to the grim gateway of the ancient castle, 
which now loomed before them,' outlined in red lines of fire 
against the ruddy background of the sunset sky. 

“Ay, it’s a fine old place. Colonel, isn’t it ? ” said the squire, 
catching the exclamation of admiration that broke from his 
companion’s lips, as a sudden turn brought them into line 
with the Norman ruin. “History — that’s what it is ; history 
in stone and mortar ; this is historic ground, every inch of it. 
Those old De la Molles, my ancestors, and the Boissers be- 
fore them, were great fo]k in their day, and they kept up their 
position W'ell. I will take you to see their tombs in the 
church yonder on Sunday. I alwaj^s hoped to be buried be- 
side them, but I can’t manage it now because of the Act. 
However, I mean to get as near to them I can. I have a 
fancy for the companionship of those old barons, though I 
expect that they were a roguish set in their lifetime. Look 
how squarely those towers stand out against the sk}". They 
alwaj's remind me of the men who built them — sturd}", over- 
bearing fellows, setting their shoulders against the sea of cir- 
cumstances, and caring neither for man nor devil till the 
priests got hold of them at the last. Well, God rest them ; 
they helped to make England, whatever their faults. Queer 
place to choose for a castle, though, wasn’t it, right out in an 
open plain.” 

“ I suppose that they trusted to their moat and walls, and 
the hagger at the bottom of the dry ditch,” said the Colonel. 
“You see there is no eminence from which they could be 


14 


COLONEL qVAEITClI, V.G. 


commanded, and their archers could sweep all the plain from 
the battlem.ents.” ' 

“Ah, yes, of course they could. . It is easy to see that you 
are a soldier. They were no fools, those old crusaders. My 
word, we must be getting on. They are hauling down tlie 
Union Jack on the west tower. I always have it hauled down 
at 'sunset,” and he began walking briskly again. 

In another three minutes they had crossed a narrow by- 
road, and were passing up the ancient drive that led to the 
castle gates. It was not much of a drive, but there were still 
some half-dozen of old pollard oaks that had no doubt stood 
there before the first Boissey — from whose family, centuries 
ago, the De la Molles had obtained the property by marriage 
with the heiress — had got his charts and cut the first sod of 
his moat. 

Right before them was the gateway of the castle, flanked 
by two great towers, and that, with the exception of some 
ruins, was, as a matter of fact, all that remained of the ancient 
building, which had been effectually demolished in the time 
of Cromwell. The space within, where the keej) had once 
stood, was now laid out as a flower garden, while the house, 
wdiich was of an unpretentious nature, and built in the 
Jacobean style, occupied the south side of the square, and 
was placed with the back to the moat. 

“ You see I have practically rebuilt those two towers,” said 
the Squire, pausing underneath the Norman archway. “ If I 
had not done it,” he added, apologetically, “ they would have 
been in ruins by now ; but it cost a pretty penny, I can tell 
3^011. Nobody knows what stuff that old flint masonry is to 
deal with till he tries it. Well, it will stand now for many a 
long da}". And here we are ” — and he pushed open a porch 
door and then passed through a passage into a kind of oak- 
panelled vestibule, which was hung with tapestry, originally 
taken, no doubt, from the old castle, and decorated with 
coats of armor, spear heads, and ancient swords. 

And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the 
face that had haunted his memory for so many znonths. 


COLONEL qUAIUTCE, V.G. 


15 


CHAPTEE III. 

THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE. 

“Is that you, father?” said a voice, a very sweet voice, 
but one of which the tones betraj^ed the irritation natural 
to a healthy woman who has been kept waiting for her 
dinner. The voice came from the recesses of the dusky room 
in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and look- 
ing in its direction, Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a 
tall form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed. 

“Is that you, father? Keally it is too bad to be so late 
for dinner — especially after you blew up that wretched Emma 
last night because she was five minutes after time. I have 
been waiting so long that I have almost been asleep.” 

“I am very sorry, my dear, very,” said the old gentleman, 
apologetically, “but — holloa! I’ve knocked my head. Here 
Mary, bring me a light.” 

“ Here is a light,” said the voice, and at the same moment 
there w^as the sound of a match being struck. 

In another moment the candle w^as alight, and the owner 
of the voice had turned around with it, holding it in such a 
fashion that its rays surrounded her like an aureole — showing 
Harold Quaritch that same face of which memory had never 
left him. There was the same powerful broad brow, the 
same nobility of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving 
hair. But the girlhood had gone out of it, the face was now 
the face of a woman, w'ho knew what life was, and had not 
found it too easy. It had lost some of its dreaminess, he 
thought, though it had gained in intellectual force. As for 
the figure, it was much more admirable than the face, which 
was, strictly speaking, not a beautiful one. The figure, how'- 
ever, was undoubtedly beautiful, indeed it is doubtful if many 
women could show a finer. Ida De la Molle was a large, strong 
woman, and there was about her a swing and a lissome grace 
which is very rare. She was now nearly six-and-twenty years 
of age, and not having begun to wither in accordance with 
tlie fate which overtakes nearly all unmarried women after 
thirty, was at her very best. Harold Quaritch, glancing at 
her well-poised head, her perfect bust and arms (for she was 
in evening dress), and her gracious form, thought to himself 
that he had never seen a nobler-looking woman. 

“Why, my dear father,” she went on as she watched the 


16 


COLONEL qUAlUTCn, v.a 


matoh burn up and held it to the candle, “you made such a 
fuss this morning about the dinner being punctually at half 
past seven, and now it is eight o’clock and you are not 
dressed. It is enough to ruin any cook,” and she broke off 
for the first time, perceiving that her father was not alone. 

“Yes, my dear, yes,” said the old gentleman, “I dare say 
I did. It is human to err, my dear, especially about dinner 
on a fine evening. Besides, I have made amends and brought 
you a visitor, our new neighbor. Colonel Quaritch. Colonel 
Quaritch, let me introduce you to my daughter. Miss De la 
Molle.” 

“ I think that we have met before,” said Harold, in a some- 
what nervous fashion, as he stretched out bis hand. 

“Yes,” answered Ida, taking it, “I remember. It was in 
the long drift, five years ago, on a wind}’ afternoon, when 
my hat blew over the hedge and you went to fetch it.” 

“You have a good memory. Miss De la jMolle,” said he, 
feeling not a little pleased that she should have recollected 
the incident. 

“Evidently not better than your own. Colonel Quaritch,” 
was her ready answer. “Besides, one sees so few strangers 
here that. one naturally remembers them. It is a place where 
nothing happens — time j^asses, that is all.” 

Meanwhile the old Squire had been making a prodigious 
fuss with his hat and stick, which he managed to send clat- 
tering down the flight of stone steps, departed to get ready, 
saying in a kind of roar as he went, that Ida was to order in 
the dinner, as he would be down in a minute. 

Accordingly she rang the bell, and told the maid to bring 
in the soup in five minutes, and to lay another plate. Then 
turning to Harold, she began to apologize to him. 

“I don’t know what sort of a dinner you will get Colonel 
Quaritch.” she said; “it is so provoking of my father, he 
never gives one the least warning when he is going to ask any 
one to -dinner.” 

“Not at all — not at all,” he answered, hurriedly, “It is I 
who ought to apologize, coming dowm on you like — like ” 

“ A wolf on the fold,” suggested Ida. 

“Yes, exactly,” he went on earnestly, “and in this coat, - 
too.” 

“Well,” she went on, laughing, “you will get very little 
to eat for your pains, and I know that soldiers ahvays like 
good dinners.” 

“ How do you know that. Miss De la Molle ? ” 

. “ Oh, because of poor James and bis friends whom he usdd 


COLONEL QUARITCRy V.C, 


17 


to bring here. By the way, Colonel Qiiaritch,” she went on, 
with a sudden softening of the voice, “you have been in 
Egypt, I know, because I have so often seen your name in 
the papers ; did you ever meet my brother there ? ” 

“ I knew him slightly,” he answered. “ Only very slightly. 
I did not know that he was your brother, or indeed that you 
had a brother. He was a dashing officer.” 

What he did not say, however, was that he also knew him 
to have been one of the wildest and most extravagant young 
men in an extravagant regiment, and as such had to some 
extent shunned his society on the few occasions when he had 
been thrown in with him. Perhaps Ida, with a woman’s 
quickness, divined from his tone that there was something 
behind his remark — at any rate, she did not ask him for 
particulars of their slight acquaintance. 

“He was my. only brother,” she continued; “ there never 
were but us two, and of course his loss was a great blow to 
me. My father cannot get over it at all, although — ” and she 
broke off suddenly and rested her head upon her hand. 

At this moment, too, the Squire was heard advancing down 
the stairs, shouting to the servants as he came. 

“A thousand pardons, my dear, a thousand pardons,” he 
said as he entered the room. “ But — well, if you will forgive 
particulars, I was quite unable to discover the whereabouts 
of a certain necessary portion of the male attire. Now, Col- 
onel Quaritch, will you take my daughter ? Stop, you don’t 
know the way — perha^^s I had better show it to you with the 
candle.” 

Accordingly he advanced out of the vestibule, and turning 
to the left, led the way down a long passage till he reached 
the dining-room. This apartment was, like the vestibule, 
oak-panelled, but the walls were mostly decorated with 
family and other portraits, including a very curious painting 
of the castle itself as it was before its destruction in the time 
of Cromwell. This painting was e:|ecuted on a massive slab 
of oak, and conceived in a most quaint and formal style, be- 
ing relieved in the foreground with stags at graze and 
woodeny horses, that must, according to any rule of propor- 
tion, have been about half as large - as the gateway towers. 
Evidently, also, it was of an older date than the present house 
which is Jacobean, having probably been removed to its pre- 
sent position from the ruins of the old castle. Such as it was 
however, it gave a very good idea of what the ancient seat 
of the Boisseys and De la Molles had been like before the 
Kcundheads had made an end of its glory. The dining-room 
2 


COLONEL QCAIUTCII, V.G. 


1 . 8 - 

itself was commodious, tliougli not large. It was lighted by 
three narrow windows which looked out upon the moat and 
bore a considerable air of solid comfort. The table, which 
was of extraordinary solidity and weight, made of black oak, 
was matched by ^a' sideboard of the same material and appar- 
ently of the same date, both pieces of furniture being, Mr. 
De la Molle informed his guest, relics of the old castle. 

On the sideboard were placed several pieces of very massive 
ancient j)late, on each of which were rudely engraved three 
falcons or, the arms of the De la Molle family, one piece 
indeed, a very ancient salver, bearing those of the Boisseys — 
a ragged oak, in an escutcheon of pretence — showing thereby 
that it dated from the De la Molle who in the time of Henry 
the Seventh had obtained the property by marriage with the 
Boissey heiress. 

As the dinner, which was a very simple one, Went on, the 
conversation having turned that way, the old Squire had this 
piece of plate brought by the servant-girl to Harold Quaritch 
for him to examine. 

“It is very curious,” he said. “Have you much of this, 
Mr. De la Molle ? ” 

“No, indeed,” he said ; “I wish I had. It all vanished in 
the time of Charles the First.” 

“ Melted down, I suppose,” said the Colonel. 

No ; that is the odd part of it. I don’t think it was. It 
was hidden somewhere — I don’t, know' where ; or perhaps it 
was turned into money and the mqney hidden. But I will 
tell you. the story if you like as soon as we have done 
dinner.” 

Accordingly, as soon as the servant had moved the cloth, 
and, after the old fashion, placed the wdne upon the naked 
wood, the squire began his tale, of which the following is the 
substance : 

“ In the time of James I. the De la Molle family was^at the 
height of its prosperity — that is, so far as money goes. For 
several generations previous the representatives of the family 
had withdrawn themselves from any active participation in 
public affairs, and, living here at small expense upon their 
lands, which were at that time very large, had amassed a 
quantity of wealth which, for the age, might fairly be called 
enormous. Thus, Sir Stephen De la Molle, the grandfather 
of the Sir James who lived in the time of James I, left to 
his son, who was also named Stephen, a sum of no less than 
twenty-three thousand pounds in gold. This Stephen was a 
great miser, and tradition says that he trebled the sum in 


COLONEL qUAUlTCn, V.C. 


19 


his life-time. Anyhow, he died rich as Cr^jesus, and abomin- 
ated alike by his tenants and by the country-side, as might 
be expected when a gentleman of his name and fame de- 
graded himself, as this Sir Stephen undoubtedly did, to the 
practice of usury. 

“ With the next heir. Sir James, however, the old spirit of 
the De la Molles seems to have revived, although it is suffic- 
iently clear that he was by no means a spendthrift, but, on 
the contrary, a careful man, though one who maintained his 
station and refused to soil his fingers with such base dealing 
as it had pleased his uncle to do. Going to court, he became, 
perhaps on account of his wealth, a considerable favorite with 
James I, to whom he was greatly attached, and from whom 
he bought a baronetcy. Indeed, the best proof of his devo- 
tion is that he on two occasions lent large sums of money to 
the King, which were never repaid. On the accession of 
Charles I., however. Sir James left court under circumstances 
which were never quite "cleared up. It is said that, smarting 
under some slight which was put upon him, he made a some- 
what brusque demand for the money which he had lent to 
James. Thereon the King, with sarcastic wit, congratulated 
him on the fact that the spirit of his uncle, Sir Stephen Oe la 
Molle, whose name was still a byword in the land, evidently 
survived in the family. Sir James turned white with fury, 
bowed, and without a word left the court ; nor did he ever 
return thither. 

“ Years passed, and the civil war was at its height. Sir 
James had as yet steadily refused to take any share in it. 
He had never forgiven the insult put upon him by the King, 
for, like most of his race, of whom it was said that they never 
forgave an injury and never forgot a kindness, he w^as a per- 
tinacious man. Therefore he would not lift a finger in the 
King’s cause. But still less would he help the Boundheads, 
whom he hated with a singular hatred. So time w^ent, till at 
last, when he was sore pressed, Charles, knowing his great 
wealth and influence, brought himself to write a letter to this 
Sir James, appealing to him for support, and especially for 
money. 

‘“I hear,’ said the King in his lettex’, ‘that Sir James De 
la Molle, who was afore ty me well affected to our person, and 
more especially to the late King, our sainted father, doth 
stand idle, watching the growing of this bloody struggle and 
lifting no hand. Such was not the way of the race from 
which he sprang, which, unless history doth greatly lie, hath 
in the past been each found at the side of their kings striking 


20 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


for the right. It is said to me also that Sir James De la 
Molle doth thus place himself aside, blowing neither hot nor 
cold, because of some sharp words which we spake in heed- 
less jest many a year that’s gone. We know not if this be 
true", doubting if a man’s memory be so long, but if so it be, 
then hereby do we crave his pardon, and no more can we do. 
And now is our estate one of grievous peril, and sorely do 
we need the aid of God and man. Therefore, if the heart of 
our subject Sir James De la Molle be not rebellious against 
us, as we cannot readily credit it to be, we do implore his 
present aid in men and money, of which last it is said he hath 
large store, this letter being proof of our urgent need.’ 

“These were, as nearly as I can remember, the very words 
of the letter, which was written in his own hand, and show 
pretty clearly how hardly he was pressed. It is said that 
when he read it. Sir James, forgetting his grievance, burst into 
tears, and taking paper, wrote hastily as follows, which last 
he certainly did, for I have seen the letter in the Museum. 

“ ‘ My Liege — Of the past I will not speak. It is past. But 
since it hath graciously pleased your Majesty to ask mine aid 
against the rebels who would overthrow your throne, rest as- 
sured that all I have is at your Majesty’s disposal, till such 
time as your enemies are discomfited. It hath pleased Provi- 
dence to so prosper my fortunes that I have stored away in a 
safe place, till these times be past, a very great sum in gold, 
whereof I will at once place ten thousand pieces at the dispos- 
al of your Majesty, so soon as a safe means can be provided 
of conveying the same, seeing that I had sooner die than that 
these great moneys should fall into the hands of the rebels to 
the furtherance of an evil cause.’ 

“ Then the letter went on to say that the writer would at 
once buckle to and raise a troop of horse among his tenantry, 
and that if other satisfactory arrangements could not be made 
for the conveyance of the moneys, he would bring them in 
person to the King. 

“ And now comes the climax of the story. The messenger 
was captured and Sir James’s incautious letter taken from his 
boot, as a result of which he, within ten days’ time, found 
himself closely besieged by five hundred Roundheads under 
command of one Colonel Playfair. The castle wvas but ill- 
provisioned for a siege, and in the end Sir James was driven 
by sheer starvation to surrender. No sooner had he obtained 
an entry than Colonel Playfair sent for his prisoner, and to 
his astonishment produced, to Sir James’s face, his own letter 
to the King. 


COLONEL qUAUITGH, V.C. 


n 


“ ‘Now, Sir James,’ he said, ‘ we have the hive^ and I must 
ask you to lead us up to the honey. Where be these great 
moneys whereof you talk herein ? Fain would I be fingering 
these ten thousand pieces in gold, the which you have so 
snugly stored awtiy.’ 

“ ‘ Ay,’ answered old Sir James, ‘you have the hive, but 
the secret of the money you have not, nor shall you have it. 
The ten thousand pieces in gold is where it is, and with it is 
much more. Find it if you may. Colonel, and take it if you 
can.’ 

“ ‘ I shall find it by to-morrow’s light, Sir James, or other- 
wise — well, or otherwise you die.’ 

“ ‘I must die— all men do, Colonel ; but if I die, the se- 
cret dies'with me.’ 

“ ‘ This shall we see,’ answered the Colonel, grimly, and old 
Sir James was marched off to a cell, and there closely con- 
fined on bread and water. But he did not die the next day, 
nor the next, nor for a week, indeed. 

“ Every day he was brought up before the Colonel and 
questioned as to where the treasure was, under the threat of 
immediate death, not being suffered meanwhile to communi- 
cate by word or sign with any one, save the officers of the 
rebels ; and every day he refused, till at last his inquisitor’s 
patience gave out, and he -was told frankly that if he did not 
communicate the secret he would be shot at dawn the follow- 
ing day. 

“Old Sir James laughed, and said that shoot him they 
might, but that he consigned his soul to the Devil if he would 
enrich them with his treasures, and then asked that his Bible 
might be brought to him that he might read therein and pre- 
pare himself for death. 

“ They gave him the Bible and left him. Next morning at 
the dawn, a file of Eoundheads marched him out into the 
court-yard of the castle, and here he found Colonel Playfair 
and his officers waiting. 

“‘Now, Sir James^.for your last word. Will you reveal 
where the treasure Ims, or will you choose to die ? ’ 

“ ‘ I will not reveal,’ answered the old man. ‘Murder me 
if ye will. The act is worthy of holy presbyters. I have 
spoken, and my mind is fixed.’ 

• Bethink you,’ said the Colonel. 

“ ‘I have thought,’ he answered, ‘and I am ready. Slay 
me and seek the treasure. But one thing I ask. My young 
son is not here. In France hath he been these three years, 
and naught knows he where I have hid this gold. Send 


22 


COLONEL QUARITCIT, V.C. 


to him this Bible when I am dead. Nay, search it from page 
to page. There is naught therein save what I have writ here 
upon this last sheet. It is all I have left to give.’ 

“ ‘ The book shall be searched,’ answered the Colonel, ‘ and 
if naught is found therein, it shall be sent. • And now, in the 
name of God, I adjure you. Sir James, let not the love of lu- 
cre stand between you and your life. ■ Here 1 make you one 
last offer. Discover to us but the ten thousand pounds 
whereof you speak in this writing,’ and he held up the letter 
to the King, ‘and you shall go free ; refuse, and you die.’ 

“ ‘ I refuse,’ he answered. 

“‘Musketeers make ready,’ shouted the Colonel, and the 
file of men stepped forward. 

“ But at that moment there came up so furious a squall of 
wind, together with dense and cutting rain, that for a while 
the execution was delayed. Presently it passed, and the wild 
light of the November morning swept out from the sky, and 
revealed the doomed man kneeling upon the sodden turf, 
with the water running from his white hair and beard, and 
l^raying. 

“ They called to him to stand up, but he would not, and 
continued praying ; so they shot him on his knees.” 

“Well,” said Colonel Quaritch, “ at any rate he died like a 
gallant gentleman.” 

At that moment there was a knock at the door, and the 
servant came in. 

“What is it?” asked the Squire.. 

“George is here, please, sir,” said the girl, “and says that 
he would like to see you.” 

“ Confound him,” growled the old gentleman ; “ he is 
always here about something or other. I suppose it is about 
the Moat Farm. He was going to see Janter to-day. Will 
you excuse me, Quaritch? Ida will tell you the end of the 
story if you care to hear any more. I will join you in the 
drawing-room.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE END OF THE TALE. 

As soon as her father had gone, Ida rose and suggested 
that if Colonel Quaritch had done with his wine thej^ should 
go into the drawing-room, which they accordingly did. Tins 
room was much more modern than either the vestibule or the 


COLONEL qUAIilTCH, V.G. 


23 


dining-room, and had a general air and flavor. of nineteenth 
century young lady about it. There were the little tables, 
the draperies, and the photograph frames, and all the 
hundred and one knick-knacks and odds and ends by means 
of which a lady of taste makes a room lovely in the eyes of 
brutal man. 

“ What a charming room ! ” said Harold as he entered it. 

“ I am glad you think so,” answered Ida, “ because it is 
my own territory, and I arrange it.” 

“Yes,” he said, “it is easy to see that.” 

“Well, would you like to hear the end of the story about 
Sir James and his treasure ? ” 

“Certainly — it interests me very much.” 

“It positively fascinates me,” said Ida, with emphasis. 

“Listen, and I will tell you. After they had shot old Sir 
James they took the Bible off him, but whether or no Colonel 
Playfair ever sent it to the son in France is not known. 

“The story is all known historically ; and it is known that, 
as my father said, he asked that his Bible might be sent, but 
nothing more. This son. Sir Edward, never lived to return 
to England. After his father’s murder the estates were seized 
by the Parliamentary party, and the old castle, with the ex- 
ception of the gate towers, razed to the ground, partly for 
military purposes and partly in the long and determined 
attempt that was made to discover old St. James’s treasure, 
which might, it was thought, have been concealed in some 
secret chamber in the walls. But it was all of no use, and 
Colonel Playfair found that in letting his temper get the 
better of him, and shooting Sir James, he had done away 
with the only chance of finding the money that he was ever 
likely to have, for to all appearance the secret had died with 
its owner. There was a great noise about it at the time, and 
the Colonel was degraded from his rank in reward for what 
he had done. It was presumed that old Sir James must 
have had accomplices in the hiding of so great a mass of gold, 
and every means, by way of threats and promises of reward 
— which at last grew to half of the total amount that should 
be discovered — was taken to induce these to come forward if 
they existed, but without result ; and so the matter went on, 
till after a few years the whole thing died away and was 
forgotten. 

“Meanwhile the son. Sir Edward, who was the second and 
last baronet, led a wandering life abroad, fearing or not caring 
to return to England, now that all his property had been 
seized. When he was two-and-twenty years of age, however. 


24 : 


COLONEL qUARITCII, V.G. 


he contracted an imprudent marriage with his cousin, a lady 
of the name of Ida Dofferleigh, a girl of good blood and grc‘at 
beaut}', but without means. Indeed, she was the sister of 
George Dofferleigh, who was a cousin and companion in exile 
of Sir Edward, and as you will presently see, my lineal an- 
cestor. Well, within a 3'ear of this marriage poor Ida, my 
namesake, died with her baby of fever, chiefly brought on, 
they say, by want and anxiety of mind, and the shock seems 
to have turned her husband’s brain. At any rate, within 
three or four months of her death he committed suicide. 
But before he did so he formally executed a rather elaborate 
will, by which he left all his estates in' England, now un- 
justly withheld from me contrary to law and natural right by 
the rebel pretender Cromwell, together with the treasure 
hidden thereon or elsewhere by my late murdered father Sir 
James Da la Molle,’ to John Geoffrey Dofferleigh, his cousin, 
and the brother of his late wife, and his heirs forever, on 
condition only of his assuming the name and arms of the 
De la Molle family, the direct line of which became extinct 
with himself. Well, of course this will, when it was executed, 
was to all appearance so much waste paper, but within 
three years from its execution Charles 11. was King of Eng- 
land. 

“ Thereon John Dofferleigh produced the document, and, 
on assuming the names and arms of Da la Molle, actually 
succeeded in obtaining the remains of the castle and a con- 
siderable portion of tha landed property, though the baronetcy 
became extinct. His son it was who built this present house, 
and he is our direct ancestor, for though my father talks of 
them as though they were — it is a little weakness of his — the 
old De la Molles were not our direct male ancestors.” 

“Well,” said Harold, “and did Dofferleigh find the treas- 
ure ? ” 

“ No, ah, no, nor anybody else ; the treasure has vanished. 
He hunted for it a great deal, and he did find those pieces of 
plate which you saw to-night hidden away somewhere, I don’t 
know where, but there was nothing else with them.” 

“Perhaps the whole thing was nonsense,” said Harold, 
reflectively. 

“No,” answered Ida, shaking her head, “I am sure it was 
not ; I am sure the treasure is hidden away somewhere to 
this day. Listen, Colonel Quaritch — you have not heard 
quite all the story yet— I found something.” 

“You! What?” 

“Wait a minute and I will show you.” And going to a 


COLONEL qVARITGE, KC 


25 


cabinet in the corner she unlocked it, and took out a despatch- 
box, which she also unlocked. 

“ Here,” she said, “ I found this. It is the Bible that 
Sir Janies begged might be sent to his son, just before they 
shot him, you remember,” and she handed him a small brown 
book. He took it and examined it carefully. It was bound 
in leather, and on the cover was written in large letters, “ Sir 
James De la Molle, Honham Castle, 1611.” Nor was this all. 
The first sheets of the Bible, which was one of the earliest 
copies of the Authorized Version, -were torn out, and the top 
corner was also gone, having to all appearance been shot off 
by a bullet, a presumption that a dark stain of blood on the 
cover and edges brought near to certainty. 

“ Poor fellow,” said Harold, “he must have had it in his 
pocket when he was shot. Where did you find it ? ” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ida ; “ in fact, I have no doubt • 
of it. I found it when I was a child in an old oak chest in 
the basement of the western tower, quite hidden, up in dust 
and rubbish and bits of old iron. But look at the end, and 
you will see what he wrote in it to his son Edward. Here, I 
will show you,” and leaning over lum she turned to the last 
page of the book. Between the bottom of the page and the 
conclusion of the final chapter of Eevelation there had been a 
small blank space densely covered with crabbed writing in 
faded ink, which she read aloud. It ran as follow s : 

“ Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus 
suddenly and wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, for 
naught happeneth but according to God’s will. And now^ 
farewell, Edward, till w'^e shall meet in Heaven. My moneys 
have I hid, and on account thereof I die unto this world, 
knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell touch. To whom 
God shall appoint, shall all my treasure be, for naught can I 
communicate.” 

“ There,” said Ida, triumphantly, “ What do you think of 
that. Colonel Quaritch ? The Bible, I think, was never sent 
to his son, but here it is, and in that writing, as I solemnly 
believe,” and she laid her white finger upon the faded char- 
acters, “ lies the key to wherever it is that the money is hid- 
den, only I fear that I shall never make it out. For years I 
I have puzzled over it, thinking that it might be some form 
of acrostic, but I can make nothing of it. I have tried it all 
ways. I have translated it into French, and had it translated 
into Latin, but still I can find out nothing — nothing. But 
some day somebody w'ill hit upon it — ^at least I hope so.” 

Harold shook his head. “ I am afraid,” he said, “ that 


26 


COLONEL qVAUITCII, V.C. 


what has remained undiscovered for so long will remain so 
till the end of the chapter. Perhaps the old Sir James was 
hoaxing his adversaries. 

“No;” said Ida, “ for if he was, what became of all the 
money ? He was known to be one of the richest men of his 
day, and that he was rich, one can see from his letter to the 
King. There was nothing found after his death, except his 
lands, of course. Oh, it will be found some day, twenty 
centuries hence perhaps — much too late to be any good to 
us.” 

“ Well,” said Harold, in a doubtful voice, “ there may be 
something in it. May I take a copy of that writing ? ” 

“Certainly,” said Ida, laughing: “and if you find the 
treasure, we will go shares. Stop, I will dictate it to you.” 

Just as this process was finished, and Harold was shutting 
up his pocket-book, in w^hich he put the fair copy he had 
executed on a half-sheet of note-paper, the old Squire came 
into the room again. Looking at his face, his visitor saw 
that his interview with “George” had evidently been any- 
thing but satisfactory, for it bore an expression of exceeding 
low spirits. 

“ Well, father, what is the matter? ” asked his daughter. 

“ Oh, nothing, my dear, nothing,” he answered, in melan- 
choly tones. “ George has been here, that is all.” 

“ Yes, and I wish he would keep away,” she said, with a 
little stamp of her foot, “for he has always some bad news 
or other.” 

“ It is the times, my dear — it is the times — it isn’t George. 
I really don’t know what has come to the country.” 

“ What is it ?” said Ida, with a deepening expression of 
anxiety. “ Something wrong about the Moat Farm ? ” 

“ Yes ; Janter has thrown it up, after all, and I am sure I 
don’t know where I am to find another tenant.” 

“You see what the pleasures of landed property are, Colo- 
nel Quaritch,” said Ida, turning toward him with a smile 
which did not somehow convey a great sense of cheerfulness. 

“Yes,” he said, “I know. Thank goodness I have only 
the ten acres that my dear old aunt left to me ! And now,” 
he added, “ I think that I must be saying good-night. It is 
half-past ten, and I expect that old Mrs. Jobson is sitting up 
for me.” 

Ida looked up in remonstrance, and opened her lips to 
speak, and then, for some reason that did not appear, changed 
her mind and held out her hand. “ Good-night, Colonel 
Quaritch,” she said ; “I am so pleased that we are going to 


COLONEL qVARlTGII, V,G. 


27 


have you as a neighbor ! By the way, I have a few people 
comiug to play lawn-tennis here to-morrow afternoon ; will 
you come too ? ” 

“ What ! ” broke in the Squire, in a voice of irritation, 
“ more lawn-tennis parties, Ida ? I think that you might have 
spared me for once — with all this business on my hands too.” 

“ Nonsense, father,” said his daughter, with some acerbity. 
“ How can a few people playing lawn-tennis hurt you? It is 
quite useless to shut one’s self up and be miserable over 
things that one cannot help.” 

The old gentleman collapsed with an air of pious resigna- 
tion, and merely asked who were coming. 

“ Oh, nobody in particular : Mr. and Mrs. Jeffries — Mr. 
Jeffries is our clergyman, you know. Colonel Quaritch — and 
Dr. Bass and the two Misses Smith, one of whom he is sup- 
posed to be in love with, and Mr. and Mrs. Quest, and Mr. 
Edward Cossey, and a few more.” 

“Mr. Edward Cossey,” said the Squire, jumping off his 
chair ; “ really, Ida, you know that I detest that young man 
— that I consider him an abominable young man — and I think 
that you might have shown more consideration for me than 
to have asked him here.” 

“I could not help it, father,” she answered, coolly. “He 
was with Mrs. Quest when I asked her, so I had to ask him 
too. Besides, I rather like Mr. Cossey, he is always so polite, 
and I don’t see why you should take such a violent prejudice 
against him. Anyliow, he is coming, and there is an end of 
it.” 

“Cossey, Cossey,” said Harold, throwing himself into the 
breach, “ I iised to know that name.” It seemed to Ida that 
he winced a little as he said it. “ Is he one of the great 
banking family ? ” 

“Yes,” said Ida ; “ he is one of the sons. They say he will 
have half a million of money or more when his father, who is 
very infirm, dies. He is looking after the branch banks of 
his house in this part of the world, at least nominally, 
Beally, I fancy that Mr. Quest manages them ; certainly he 
manages the Boisingham branch.” 

“ Well, well,” said the Squire, “if they are coming, I sup- 
pose they are coming. At any rate, I can go out walking. 
If you are going home, Quaritch, I will walk with you. I 
want a little air.” 

“ Colonel Quaritch, you have not said if you will come to 
my party to morrow yet,” said Ida, as he stretched out his 
hand to say good-by. 


28 


COLO mi QVARITCIL V>0. 


“ Oh, thank you, Miss De la Molle ; yes, I think I can 
come, though I play tennis atrociously.” 

“ Ob, we all know that. Well, good-night. I am so -very 
pleased that you have come to live at Molehill ; it will be so 
nice for my father to have a companion,” she added, as an 
after- thought. 

“ Yes,” said the Colonel, grimly ; “we are almost of an age ; 
good-night.” 

Ida watched the door close and then leaned her arm on the 
mantel-piece, and reflected that she liked Colonel Quaritch 
very much, so much that even his not very beautiful physiog- 
nomy did not repel her, indeed rather attracted her than 
otherwise. “Do you know,” she said to herself, “I think 
that that is the soi't of man that I should like to marry. 
Nonsense,” she added, with an impatient shrug — “ nonsense ; 
you are nearly six-and-twenty, altogether too old for that sort 
of thing. And now there is this new trouble about the Moat 
Farm. My poor old dad ! Well, it is a hard world, and I 
think that sleep is about the best thing in it.” And with a 
sigh she lighted her candle to go to bed, then changed her 
mind and sat down to await her father’s return. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE SQUIRE EXPLAINS THE POSITION. 

“ I don’t know what is coming to this country, I really 
don’t ; and that’s a fact,” said the Squire to his companion, 
after they had walked some paces in silence. “Here is this 
farm, the Moat Farm. It fetched twenty-five shillings an 
acre when I was a young man, and eight years ago it used to 
fetch thirty-five. Now I have reduced it and reduced it to 
fifteen, just in order to keep the tenant. And what is the 
end of it? Janter — he’s the tenant — gave notice last Mic- 
haelmas ; but that stupid owl, George, said it was all nothing, 
and that he would continue at fifteen shillings when the time 
came. And now to-night he comes to me with a face as long 
as a yard-arm, and saj^s that Janter won’t keep it at any price, 
and that he does not know where he is to find another tenant, 
not he. It’s quite heart-breaking, that’s what it is. Three 
hundred acres of good, sound, food-producing land, and no 
tenant for it at fifteen shillings an acre. What am I to 
do?” 


COLONEL QUARITCIL V.C, 


20 


“Can’t you take it in hand and farm it yourself?” asked 
Harold. 

“How can I take it in hand? I have one farm of a hun- 
dred and fifty acres in hand as it is. Do you know what it 
would cost to take over that farm ? ” and he stopped in his 
walk and struck his stick into the ground. “ Ten pounds an 
acre, every farthing, of it — and say a thousand for the cove- 
nants — about four thousand pounds in all. Now where am I 
to get four thousand pounds to speculate with in that way, 
for it is a speculation, and one which I am too old to look 
after myself, even if I had the knowledge. Well, there 5'ou 
are, and now I’ll say good-night, sir. It’s getting chilly, and 
I have felt my chest for the last year or two — By the way, 
I suppose I shall see you to-morrow at this tennis party of 
Ida’s. It’s all very well for Ida to go in for her tennis par- 
ties, but how can I think of such things with all this worry 
on my hands? Well, good-night. Colonel Quaritch, good- 
night,” and he turned and walked away through the moon- 
light. 

Harold Quaritch watched him go, and then stalked off 
home, reflecting, not without sadness, upon the drama which 
was opening up before him, that most common of dramas in 
these days of depression, the break up of an ancient family 
through causes beyond control. It required far less acumen 
and knowledge of the world than he possessed to make it 
clear to him that the old race of De la Molle was on its last 
legs. This story of farms thrown up and money not forth- 
coming pointed its own moral, and a sad one it was. Even 
Ida’s almost childish excitement about the legend of the bur- 
ied treasure showed him how present to her mind must be 
the necessity of money : and he fell to thinking how pleasant 
it would be to be able to play the part of the fairy prince and 
step in with untold wealth between her and the ruin which 
threatened her family. How well that old Squire would be- 
come a great station, fitted as he was by nature, descent, and 
tradition to play the solid part of an English gentleman of 
the good old-fashioned kind ! It was pitiful to think of a 
man of his stamp, forced by the vile exigencies of a narrow 
purse, to scheme and fight against the advancing tide of des- 
titution. And Ida, too — Ida, who was equipped with every 
attribute that can make wealth and power what tliey should 
be — a frame to show ofi^ her worth and state. Well, it was 
the way of the world, and he could not mend it ; but it was 
with a bitter sense of the unfitness of things that he, with 
some little difficulty — for he was not yet fully accustomed to 


80 


COLONEL qUARITCII, V.O, 


its twists and turns — found Ins way past the sivelling heap of 
Dead Man’s Mount and round the house to his own front 
door. 

He entered the hou^e, and having told Mrs. Jobson that she 
could go to bed, sat down to smoke and think. Harold Quar- 
itch was, like many solitary men, a great smoker, and never 
did he feel the need of the consolation of tobacco more than 
he did this night. A few months ago, when he had retired 
from the army, he found himself in a great dilemma. There 
he was, a hale, active man of three-and-forty, of busy habits 
and regular mind, suddenly thrown upon the world without 
occupation. What was he to do with himself? While he 
was asking himself this question and waiting blankly for an 
answer which did not come, his aunt, old Mrs. Massey, de- 
parted this life, leaving him heir to what she possessed — it 
might be three hundred a year in all. This, added to his 
pension and the little that he owned independently, put him 
beyond the necessity of seeking further employment. So he 
had made up his mind to come to reside at Molehill, and live 
the quiet, somewhat aimless life of a small country gentleman. 
His reading, for he was a great reader, especially of scientific 
works, would, he thought, keep him employed, seeing that in 
addition to reading he was a thorough sportsman, and an 
ardent, though owing to the smallness of his means necessar- 
ily not a very extensive, collector of curiosities, and more par- 
ticularly of coins. 

At first, after he had come to his decision, a feeling of 
infinite rest and satisfaction had taken possession of him. 
The struggle of life was over for him. No longer would he 
be obliged to think and contrive and toil, henceforth his life 
would slope gently down toward the inevitable end. Trouble 
lay in the past, now rest and rest alone awaited him, rest 
that would gradually grow deeper and deeper as the swift 
years rolled by him, till it was swallowed up in that almighty 
peace to which, being a simple and religious man, he had 
looked forward from childhood as the end and object of his 
life. 

Foolish man and vain imagining ! Here, while we draw 
breath, there is no rest. We must go on continually, on from 
strength to strength, or weakness to weakness ; we must 
always be troubled about this or that, and must ever have 
this to desire and that to regret. It is an inevitable law 
within whose attraction all must fall ; yes, even the purest 
souls, cradled in their hope of heaven ; and the most swinish, 
wallowing in the mud of their gratified desires. 


COLONEL qUARlTCE, V,G. 


31 


And so our hero had alread}^ begun to find out. Here, 
before he had been forty-eight hours in Honham, a fresh 
cause of troubling had arisen. He had seen Ida De la Molle 
again, and after an interval of between five and six years had 
found her face yet more charming than he had before. In 
shorty he had fallen in love with it, and being a sensible man, 
he did not conceal this fact from himself. Indeed, the truth 
was that he had been in love with her for all these years, 
though he had never looked at the matter in that light. At 
the least the pyre had been gathered and laid, and did but 
require the touch of the match to burn up merrily enough. 
And now this was supplied, and at the first glance of Ida’s 
eyes the magic flame began to hiss and crackle, and he knew 
that nothing short of a convulsion or a deluge would put it 
out. 

Men of the stamp of Harold Quaritch generally pass 
through three stages with reference to the other sex. They 
begin in their youth by making a goddess of one of them, and 
finding out their mistake. Then for many years they look up- 
on woman as the essence and incarnation of evil, and a thing 
no more to be trusted than a jaguar. Ultimately, however, 
this folly \vears itself out, probably in proportion as the old 
affection fades and dies- away, and is rejjlaced by contempt 
and regret that so much should have been wasted on that 
which was so little worth. Then it is that the danger comes, 
for then a man puts forth his second venture, puts it forth 
witl] fear and trembling, and with no great hope of seeing 
a golden Argosy sailing into port. And if it sinks, or is 
driven back by adverse winds and frowning skies, then there 
is an end of his legitimate dealings with such frail merchan- 
dise. 

And now he, Harold Quaritch, was about to put forth his 
second venture, not of his own desire or free-will, indeed, 
but because his reason and judgment were overmastered. In 
short, to put it briefly, he had fallen in love with Ida De la 
Molle when he first saw her five years ago, and was now in the 
process of discovering the fact. There he sat in his chair in 
the old half-furnished room, which he proposed to turn into 
his dining-room, and groaned in spirit over this portentous 
discovery. What had become of his fair prospect of quiet 
years sloping gently downward, and warm with the sweet 
drowsy light of afternoon ? How was it that he had not 
known those things that belonged to his peace ? And prob- 
ably it would end in nothing. Was it likely that such a 
splendid young woman as Ida would care for a superannuated 


32 


COLONEL qUARITGH, V.O. 


army officer, with nothing beyond four or five hundred a 
year and a Victoria Cross, which he never wore, to recommend 
him ? Probably if she married at all she w'ould try to marry 
some one who would assist to retrieve the fallen fortunes of 
her family, which it was absolutely beyond his power to do. 
Altogether the outlook did not please him, as he sat there far 
into the watches of the night and sucked at his emptj’’ pipe. 
So little did it please him, indeed, that when at last he rose 
to find his way to bed up the old oak staircase, the only im- 
posing thing in Molehill, he had almost made ujd his mind to 
give up the idea of living at Honham at all, to sell the place 
and emigrate to Vancouver’s Island or New Zealand, and thus 
place an impassable barrier between himself and that sweet, 
strong face, which somehow seemed to have acquired a touch 
of sternness since last he had looked upon it. 

Ah, wise resolutions of the quiet night, whither do you go 
in the garish light of day? To heaven, perhaps, with the 
mist wreaths and the dew-drops. 

When the Squire got back to the castle he found his 
daughter still sitting up in tlie drawing-room. 

“ What ! not gone to bed, Ida?” he said. 

“No, father. I was going, and then I thought that I 
would wait to hear what all this was about Janter and the 
Moat Farm. It is best to get it over.” 

“ Yes, yes, my dear — yes, but there is not much to tell you. 
Janter has thrown up the farm, after all, and George says that 
there is not another tenant to be had for love or money. He 
tried one man, who said that he would not have it at five 
shillings an acre, as prices are.” 

“ That is bad enough in all conscience,” said Ida, pushing 
at the fire-irons with her foot. “ What is to be done?” 

“ What is to be done ? ” answered her father, irritably. 
“ How can I tell you what is to be done? I suppose that I 
must take the place in hand, and that is all.” 

“Yes ; but that costs money, does it not ? ” 

“ Of course it does ! it costs about four thousand pounds.” 

“ Well,” said Ida, looking up, “ and where is all that sum 
to come from ? We have not got four thousand pounds in 
the world.” 

“Come from? Why, I suppose that I must borrow it on 
the security of the land.” 

“ Would it not be better to let the place go out of cul- 
tivation,” she answered, “rather than risk all that sum of 
money ?” 

“ Go out of cultivation ! Nonsense, Ida, how can you talk 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


3.3 


like that? Why, that strong land would be ruined for a 
generation to come.” 

“Perhaps it would, but surely it would be better that it 
should be ruined than that we should be. Father, dear, she 
said, appealingly, laying her hand upon his shoulder, “do be 
frank with me, and tell me what our position really is. I see 
3' oil wearing j^ourself out about business from day to day, and 
I know that there is never any mone}* for anything, scarcely 
enough to keep the house going ; and yet you never tell me 
what we really owe— and I think I have a right to kiTow.” 

The Squire turned impatientha “ Girls have no head for 
these things,” he said, “ so wdiat is the use of talking about 
it?” 

“ But I am not a girl ; I am a w’oman of six-and-twenty ; 
and putting other things aside, I am almost as much interested 
in your affairs as 3^011 are yourself,” with determination. “ I 
cannot bear this sort of thing an3' longer. I see that abomin- 
able man, Mr. Quest, continually hovering about here like a 
bird of ill-omen, and I cannot stand it ; and I tell you what 
it is, father, if 3^011 don’t tell me the whole truth at once, I 
shall cry,” and she looked as if she meant it. 

Now the old Squire was no more impervious to a woman’s 
tears than any other man, and of all Ida’s moods, and they 
were man3", he most greatly feared that rare one which took 
the form of tears. Besides, he loved his only daughter more 
dearly than anything in the world except one thing, Honham 
Castle, and could not bear to give her pain. 

“ Very well,” he said, “ of <?ourse, if you wish to know 
about these things you have a right to. I have wished to 
spare you trouble, that is all ; but as yon are so very imperious, 
the best thing that I can do is to let you have your own wa3^ 
Still, as it is rather late, if you have no objection, I think that 
I had better put it off till to-morrow.” 

“No, no, father. By to-morrow you will have changed 
your mind. Let us have it now. I want to know how much 
we really owe, what we have got to live on.” 

The old gentleman hummed and hawed a little, and after 
various indications of impatience at last began : 

“Well, as 3'ou know, our family has for some generations 
depended upon the land. Your dear mother brought a small 
fortune with her, five or six thousand pounds, but that was, 
with the sanction of her trustees, expended upon improve- 
ments to the farms and to this house. Well, for many 3^ears 
the land brought in about two thousand a year, but somehow 
W8 always found it difficult to keep within that income. For 
3 


34 


COLONEL QUARITCII, V.G. 


instance, I found it necessary to repair the gateway, and you 
have no idea of the expense in which those repairs landed me. 
Then your brother James cost a lot of money, and always 
would have the shooting kept ujd in such an extravagant way. 
Then he went into the army, and Heaven only knows what he 
cost me there. Your poor brother was very extravagant, my 
dear, and — well, perhaps I was foolish ; I never could say him 
no. And that was not all of it, for wlien the poor boy died 
he left fifteen hundred pounds of debt behind him, and I had 
to find the money, if it was only for the honor of the family. 
Of course j^ou know that we cut the entail when he came of 
age. Well, and then these dreac.ul times have come upon 
the top of it all, and, upon my word, at the present moment 
I don’t know which way to turn,” and he paused and drummed 
his finger uneasily upon a book. 

“Yes, father, but you have not told me yet vhat it is that 
we owe.” 

“ Well, it is difficult to answer that all in a minute ; perhaps 
tw^enty-five thousand on mortgage, and a few floating debts.” 

“And what is the place worth ? ” 

“It used to be worth between fifty and sixty thousand 
pounds. It is impossible to say what it would fetch now. 
Land is practically a drug in the market. But things will 
come round, my dear. It is only a question of holding on.” 

“Then if you borrow a fresh sum in order to take up this 
farmj you will owe about thirty thousand pounds, and if you 
have to pay five per cent., as I suppose you do, you will have to 
pay fifteen hundred a year in interest. Now, father, you 
said that in good times the land brought in two thousand 
a year, so, of course, it can’t bring in so much now. There- 
fore, by the time that you have paid the interest, there will be 
nothing, or less than nothing, left for us to live on.” 

Her father winced at this cruel and convincing logic. 

“No, no,” he said, “it is not so bad as that. You jump 
to conclusions, but really, if you do not mind, I am very 
tired, and should like to go to bed.” 

“Father, what is the good of trying to shirfr the thing 
just because it is disagreeable?” she asked, earnestly. “Do 
you suppose that it is more pleasant to me to talk about 
it than it is for you ? I know that you are not to blame 
about it. I know that poor dear James wa^ very thought- 
less and extravagant, and that the times are crushing. But 
to go on like this is only to go to ruin. It would be bet- 
ter for us to go to live in a cottage on a couple of hun- 
dred a year than to try to keep our heads above water here. 


COLONEL qUARITCII, V.C. 


35 


which we cannot do. Sooner or later these people, Quest, 
or whoever they are, will want their money back, and then, 
if they cannot have it, they will sell the jdace over our 
heads. I believe that man Quest wants to get it himself 
— that is what I believe — and set up as a country gentle- 
man. Father, I know it is a dreadful thing to say, but we 
ought to leave Honham.” 

“Leave Honham!” said the old gentleman, jumping up 
in his agitation ; “what nonsense you talk, Ida ! How can 
I leave Honham? It would kill me at my age. How can 
I do it ? And, besides, who is to look after the farms and 
all the business? No, we must hang on and trust to 
Providence. Things may come round, something may hap- 
pen, one can never tell in this world.” 

“ If we do not leave Honham, then Honham will leave us,” 
answered his daughter, with conviction. “ I do not believe 
in chances. Chances always go the wrong way against those 
who are looking for them. We shall be absolutely ruined, 
that is all.” 

“Well, perhaps you are right, perhaps you are right, my 
dear,” said the old gentleman, wearily. “ I only hope that 
my time may come first. I have lived here all my life, and I 
know that I could not live anywhere else. But God’s will be 
done. And now, my dear, go to bed.” 

She leaned down and kissed him, and as she did so saw 
that his eyes were filled with tears. Not trusting herself to 
speak, for she felt for him too deeply to do so, she turned 
away and went, leaving the old man sitting there with his 
gray head bowed upon his breast. 


CHAPTER VI. 

LAWYER QUEST. 

The day following the conversation described in the last 
chapter was one of those glorious autumn mornings which 
sometimes come as a faint compensation for the utter vileness 
and bitter disappointment of the season which in this coun- 
try we dignify by the name of summer. Notwithstanding 
liis vigils and melancholy of the night before, the Squire 
was up early, and Ida, who between one thing and another 
had not had the best of nights, heard his loud cheery voice 
shouting about the place for “ George.” 


36 


COLONEL qUARlTOH, V.G. 


Looking out of her bedroom window, she soon perceived 
that functionary himself — a long, lean, powerful-looking man 
with a melancholy face and a twinkle in his little gray eyes — 
hanging about the front steps. Presently her father emerged 
in a brilliant but ancient dressing-gown, his white locks wav- 
ing on the breeze. 

“Here, George, where are you, George?” 

“ Here I be, sir.” 

“ Ah, yes ; then why don’t you say so ? Here I have been 
shouting myself hoarse for you.” 

“ Yes, Squire,” replied the imperturbable George ; “ I have 
been standing here for the last ten minutes, and I heard you.” 

“You heard me ! then why the dickens didn’t you answer?” 

“ Because I didn’t think that you wanted me, sir. I saw 
that you hadn’t finished your letter.” 

“Well, then, you ought to. You know very well that my 
chest is weak, and yet I have to go holloaing all over the place 
after you. Now look here, have you got that fat pony of 
yours here ? ” 

“ Yes, Squire, the pony is here ; and if it is fat, it isn’t for 
the want of movement.” 

“ Very well, then ; take this letter,” and he handed him an 
epistle sealed with a tremendous seal — “ take this letter to 
Mr. Quest at Boisingham, and wait for an answer. And look 
here, see you are about tlie place at eleven o’clock, for I 
expect Mr. Quest to see me about the Moat Farm.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ I suppose you have heard nothing more from Janter, have 
you?” 

“No, Squire, nothing. He means to get the place at his 
own price or chuck it.” 

“ And what is his price ? ” 

“ Five shillings an acre. You see, sir, it’s this way. That 
army gent. Major Boston, as is agent for all the college lauds 
down the valley, he be a poor weak fool, and when all these 
tenants come to him and say that they must either have the 
land at five shillings an acre or go, he gets scared, he dew, 
and down goes the rent of some of the best meadow-land in 
the country from thirty-five shillings to five. Of course it 
don’t signify to him not a half-penny ; the college must pay 
him his salary all the same, and he don’t know no more about 
farming, nor land, nor nothing, than my old mare minder. 
Well, and what comes of it ? Of course every tenant on the 
place hears that those college lands are going for five shillings 
an acre, and they prick up their ears and say they must have 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V,C, 


37 


their land at the same figger, and it’s all owing to that Boston 
varmint, who ought to be kicked through every hole on the 
place and then drowned to dead in a dike.” 

“ Yes, you’re right there, George ; that silly man is a pub- 
lic enemy, and ought to be treated as such ; but the times are 
very bad, with corn down to twenty-nine, very bad.” 

“I’m not saying that they ain’t bad, Squire,” said his re- 
tainer, his long face lighting up ; “ they are bad, cruel bad, 
bad for everybody. And I’m not denying that they are bad 
for the tenants, but if they are bad for the tenants they are 
wus for the landlord. It all comes on his shoulders in the 
long-nin. If men find that they can get land at five shillings 
an acre that’s worth twenty, why, it isn’t in human nature to 
pay twenty, and if they find the landlord must go as they 
drive him, of course they’ll lay on the whip. "Why, bless you, 
sir, when a tenant comes and says that he is very sorry, but 
he finds he can’t pay his rent, in nine cases out of ten, if you 
could just look at that man’s bank-book, you’d find that the 
bank was paid, the tradesmen were paid, the doctor’s paid, 
everybody’s paid before he thinks about his rent. Let the 
landlord suffer, because he can’t help himself ; but Lord bless 
us, if a hundred pounds was overdue to the bank it would 
have the innards out him in no time, and he knows it. Now, 
as for that varmint, Jan ter, to tell me that he can’t pay fifteen 
shillings an acre for the Moat Farm is nonsense. I only wish 
I had the capital to take it at the price.” 

“ Well, George,” said the Squire, “ I think that if it can be 
managed I shall borrow the money and take the farm on hand. 
I am not going to let Janter have it at five shillings an acre.” 

“Ah, sir, that’s the best way. Bad as times are, it will go 
hard if I can’t make the interest ^and the rent out of it too. 
Besides, squire, if you give way about this farm, all the others 
will come down on you. I’m not saying a word agin your 
tenants, but where there’s money to be made you can’t trust 
no man.” 

“Well, well,” said the Squire, “perhaps j’ou are right and 
perhaps you ain’t. Right or wrong, you always talk like Sol- 
omon in all his glory. Anyway, be off with that note, and let 
me have the answ'er as soon as you get back. Mind you don’t 
go loafing and jawing about down in Boisingham, because I 
want my answer.” 

“So he means to borrow the money if he can get it,” said 
Ida to herself as she sat, an invisible auditor, doing her hair 
])y the open wfindow. “ George can do more with him in five 
minutes than I can in a week, and I know that he hates Jan- 


38 


COLONEL, qUAUlTGH, V.G, 


ter. I believe Janter threw up the farm because of his quar* 
relling with George. Well, I suppose that we must take our 
chance.” 

Meanwhile George had mounted his cart and departed upon 
the road to Boisingham, urging his fat pony along as though 
he meant to be there in twenty minutes. But so soon as he 
was well out of reach of the Squire’s shouts and sight of the 
castle gates, he deliberately turned up a by-lane and jogged 
along for a mile or more to a farm where he had a long con- 
fabulation with a man about thatching some ricks. Thence 
he quietly made his way to his own little place, where he pro- 
ceeded to comfortably get his breakfast, remarking to his wife 
that he was of opinion that there was no hurry about the 
Squire’s letter, as “ laryers ” wasn’t in the habit of coming to 
office at eight in the morning. 

Breakfast over, the philosophic George quietly got into his 
cart, the fat pony having been tied up outside, and leisurely 
drove into the picturesque old town which lay at the head of 
the valley. All along the main street he met many acquaint- 
ances, and with each he found it necessary to stop and have a 
talk, indeed with two he had a modest half-pint. At length, 
however, his labor o’er, he arrived at Mr. Quest’s office, which, 
as all the Boisingham world knows, is just opposite the 
church, of which Mr. Quest is one of the church-wardens, and 
which was but two years ago beautifully restored, mainly ow- 
ing to his efforts and generous contributions. Driving up to 
the small and quiet-looking doorway of a very unpretentious 
building, George descended and knocked, whereon a clerk 
opened the door, and in answer to his inquiries informed him 
that he believed Mr. Quest had just come over to the office. 

In another minute he was shown into an inner room of the 
ordinary country-office stamp, and there at the table sat Mr. 
Quest himself. 

Mr. Quest was a man of about forty years of age, rather 
under than over, with a pale ascetic cast of face, and a quiet 
and pleasant, though somewhat reserved, manner. His feat- 
ures were in no way remarkable, with the exception of his 
eyes, which seemed to have been set in his head owing to 
some curious error of nature. For whereas his general tone 
was dark, his hair in particular being jet-black, these eyes 
were gray, and jarred extraordinarily upon their companion 
features. For the rest, he w^as a man of some presence, and 
with the manners of a gentleman. 

‘‘Well, George,” he said, “what is it that brings you to 
Boisingham ? A letter from the Squire ? Thank you. Take 


COLONEL QUARITCH, 7 .( 7 . 


39 


a seat, will you, while I look through it. Umph ! wants me 
to come and see him at eleven o’clock. I am very sorry, but 
I can’t manage that, anyway. Ah, I see ! about the Moat 
Farm. Janter told me that he was going to throw it up, and 
I advised him to do nothing of the sort ; but he is a dissatis- 
fied sort of a fellow, Janter is, and Major Boston has upset 
the whole country-side by his very ill-advised action about 
the college-lands.” 

“ Janter is a warmint, and Major Boston, begging his par- 
don for the language, is an ass, sir. Anyway, there it is — 
Janter has thrown up, and where I am to find a tenant be- 
tween now and Michaelmas I don’t know ; in fact, with the 
college lands going at five shillings an acre, there ain’t no 
chance.” 

“ Then what does the Squire propose Jo do — take the land 
in hand?” 

“Yes, sir, that’s it ; and. that’s what he wants to see you 
about.” I 

“More money, I suppose? ” said IMr. Quest. 

“ Well, yes, sir. You see there will be the covenants to 
meet — and then the farm is three hundred acres, and to stock 
it proper means nine pounds an acre quite on this here heavy 
land.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know — a matter of four thousand, more or 
less — but where is it to come from?— that’s the question. 
Cosseys’ do not like land any more than other banks do. 
However, I’ll see my principal' about it. But, George, I can’t 
possibly get up to the castle at eleven. I have got a church- 
wardens’ meeting at a quarter to, about that west pinnacle, 
you know. It is in a most dangerous condition ; and, by the 
way, before you go, I should like to have your opinion, as a 
practical man, as to the best way to deal with it. To rebuild 
it would cost one hundred and twenty pounds, and that is 
more than we see our way to at present, though I can prom- 
ise fifty if they can scrape up the rest. But about the 
Squire. I think that the best thing I can do will be to come 
up to the castle to lunch, and then I can talk over matters 
with him. Stay ; I will just write him a note. By the way, 
you would like a glass of wine, wouldn’t you, George ? Non- 
sense, man, here it is in the cupboard. A glass of wine is a 
good friend to have handy, sometimes.” 

George, who, like most men of his stamp, could put away 
his share of liquor, and feel thankful for it, drank his glass 
of wine while Mr. Quest was engaged in writing his note, 
wondering meanwhile what made the lawyer so civil to him ; 


40 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.O. 


for George did not like Mr. Quest ; indeed, it would not be 
too much to say that he hated him. But this was a feeling 
that he never allowed to appear ; he was too much afraid of 
the man for that, and in his own way too much devoted to the 
old Squire’s interests to run the risk of imperilling them by 
the exhibition of any aversion to Mr. Quest. He knew more 
of his master’s affairs than anybody living, unless it was, per- 
haps, Mr. Quest himself, and 'was aware that the lawyer held 
the old gentleman in a bondage that could not be broken. 
Now George was a man with many faults. He was somew^hat 
sly, and perhaps, within certain lines, at times capable of giv- 
ing the w’ord honesty a liberal interpretation. But he had 
one conspicuous virtue, he loved the old Squire as a High- 
landman loves his chief, and w’ould almost, if not quite, have 
died to serve him. Ipdeed, as it was, his billet w'as no easy 
one, for Mr. De la Mode’s temper was none of the best, at 
times, and w^hen things went wrong, as they pretty frequently 
did, he was exceedingly apt to visit his w’rath on the head of 
the devoted George, saying things to him w hich he should not 
have said. But his retainer took it all in the day’s w ork, and 
never bore malice, continuing in his own pig-headed sort of 
way to labor early and late to prop up his master’s broken 
fortunes. Indeed, had it not been for George’s contrivings 
and procrastinations, Honham Castle and its owner would 
have parted company long before. 


CHAPTEE m 

EDW^ARD COSSEY, ESQUIRE. 

After George had drunk his glass of wine, and given his 
opinion as to the best way to deal wdth the dangerous pinna- 
cle on the Boisingham Church, he took the note, untied the 
fat pony, and ambled off back to Honham, leaving the lawyer 
alone. As soon as he was gone, Mr. Quest threw^ himself 
back in his chair — an old oak one, by the way, for he had a 
very pretty taste in antiquities and a positive mania for col- 
lecting them — and plunged into a browm study. 

Presently he leant forward, unlocked the top draw^er of his 
writing-table, and extracted from it a letter addressed to him- 
self, which he had received that very morning. It w^as from 
the principals of the great banking firm of Cossey& Son, and 


COLONEL qUARITGII, Y.G. 41 

dated from their head office in Mincing Lane. It ran as fol- 
lows ; 

[Primte and confidential,'] 

“ Dear Sir : We have considered your report as to the ex- 
tensive mortgages which we hold upon the Honham Castle 
estates, and have given due 'sveight to your arguments as to 
the advisability of allowing Mr. De la Molle time to give things 
a chance of righting. But we must tell you that vre can see 
no prospect of any such solution of the matter, at any rate for 
some years to come. All the information that we are able to 
gather points to a further decrease in the value of land rather 
than to a recovery. The interest on the mortgages in question 
is moreover a year in arrear, probably owing to the non-re- 
ceipt of rents by Mr. De la Molle. Under these circum- 
stances, much as it grieves us to take action against Mr. De 
la Molle, with whose family we have had dealings for five gen- 
erations, we can see no alternative to foreclosure, and hereby 
instruct you to take the necessaiy preliminary steps to bring 
it about in the usual manner. We are, presuming that Mr. 
De la Molle is not in a position to pay off the mortgages, 
quite aware of the risks of a forced sale, and shall not be as- 
tonished if, in the present unprecedented condition of the 
land market, such a sale should result in a loss, althongh the 
sum recoverable does not amount to half the valuation of the 
estates, which was undertaken at our instance about twelve 
years ago, on the occasion of the first advance. The only al- 
ternative, however, would be for us to enter into possession 
of the property or to buy it in. But this would be a course 
totally inconsistent with the usual practice of the bank, and 
what is more, our confidence in the stability of landed prop- 
erty is so utterly shattered by our recent experiences that we 
cannot burden ourselves by such a course, preferring to run 
the risk of an immediate loss, w'hicli, how^ever, we hope that 
the historical character of the property and’ its great natural 
advantages as a residential estate will avert, or at the least 
minimize. 

“Be so good as to advise us by an early post of the steps 
you take in pursuance of these instructions. 

“ We are, dear sir, your obedient servants, 

CossEY & Son. 

W. Quest, Esq. 

« p. S. — We have thought it better to address you direct 
in this matter, but of course you will communicate the con- 


42 


COLONEL QUARITCIC V.C. 


tents of this letter to Mr. Edward Cossej, and subject to our 
instructions, which are final, act in consultation with him.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Quest to himself, as he folded up the 
sheet of paper, “ that is about as straight as it can be put. 
And this is the time that the old gentleman chooses to ask 
far another four thousand. He may ask, but the answer will 
be more than he bargains for.” 

He rose from the chair and began to walk up and down the 
room in evident perplexity. “If only,” he said, “I had 
twenty-five thousand, I would take up the mortgages myself 
and foreclose at my leisure. It would be a good investment 
at that figure, even as things are ; and besides, I should like 
to have that place. Twenty-five thousand, only twenty-five 
thousand, and now wdien I want it I have not got it. And I 
should have had it if it had not been for that ti^er, that devil, 
Edith. She has had more than that out of me in the last ten 
years, and still she is threatening, and crying for more, more, 
more. Tiger ; yes, that is the name for her, her own name 
too. She would coin one’s vitals into money if she could. 
All Belle’s fortune she has had, or nearly all, and most of my 
savings, and now she wants another five hundred, and she 
will have it, too. 

“Here we are,” and he drew a letter from his pocket writ- 
ten in a bold but somewhat uneducated woman’s hand. 

“Dear Bill,” it ran — “ I’ve been unlucky again, and dropped 
a pot. Shall want £500 by the 1st October. No shuffling, 
mind ; money down ; but I think that you know me too well 
to play any more larks. When can you tear yourself from 
the lovely Mrs. Q., and come and give your E. a look ? Bring 
some tin when you come, and we will have times. — Thine, 
The Tiger.” 

“ The Tiger — yes, the Tiger,” he gasped, his face working 
with passion and his gray eyes glinting as he tore the epistle 
to fragments and threw them down and stamped on them. 
“Well, be careful that I don’t one day cut your claws and 
paint your stripes. By Heaven ! if ever a man felt like mur- 
der, I do now. Five hundred more, and I haven’t five thou- 
sand clear in the world. Truly we pay for the follies of our 
youth ! It makes me mad to think of those fools Cossey & 
Son forcing that place into the market just now. There’s a 
fortune in it at the price. In another year or two I might 
have recovered myself, that devil of a woman might be dead 
— and I have several irons in the fire, some of which would be 
sure to turn up trumps. Surely there must be a way out of 


COLONEL QUARITGH, Y.G. 


43 


it somehow. There’s a way out of dYerything if only one 
thinks enough, but the thing is to find it,” and he stopped in 
his walk opposite to the window that looked upon the street, 
and put his hand to his head. 

As he did so he caugbt sight of the figure of a tall gentle- 
mau strolling idly toward the office door. For a rnoiuent he 
stared at him blankh', as a man does when he is trying to 
catch the vague clew to a new idea. Then, as the figure passed 
out of his view, he brought his fist down heavily upon the 
sill. 

“Edward Cossey, by George ! ” he said, aloud. “ There’s 
the way out of it, if only I can work him ; and unless I have 
made a strange mistake, I think I know the way.” 

A couple of minutes afterward a tall, shapely young man, 
of about twenty four or five years of age, came strolling into 
the office where Mr. Quest was sitting, to all appearance hard 
at work at his correspondence. He was dark in complexion 
and decidedly distinguished-looking in feature, with large 
dark ej'es, dai k mustaches, and a pale, somewhat Spanish-look- 
ing, skin. Young as the face was, it had, if observed closely, 
a somewhat worn and worried air, such as one vvmuld scarcely 
expect to see upon the countenance of a gentleman born to 
such brilliant fortunes, and so well fitted by nature to do them 
justice, as was Mr. Edward Cossey. For it is not every young 
man with dark eyes and a good figure who is destined to be 
the future head of one of the most wealthj'^ private banks in 
England, and to inherit in due course a sum of money in hard 
cash variously estimated at from half a million to a million 
sterling. Such, however, was the prospect in life that opened 
out before Mr. Edward Cossey, who was now supposed by his 
old and eminently business like father to be in process of 
acquiring a sound knowledge of the provincial a^airs of their 
house by attending to the working of their country branches 
in the Eastern counties. 

“ How do you do. Quest ? ” said Edward Cossey, nodding 
somewhat coldly to the lawyer and sitting down. “ Any busi- 
ness? ” 

“ Well, yes, Mr. Cossey,” answered the lawyer, rising re- 
spectfully, “there is some business, some very serious busi- 
ness.” 

“Indeed,” said Edward, indifferently ; “ what is it?” 

“ Well, it is this : the house has ordered a foreclosure on 
the Honham Castle estates — at least it comes to that ” 

At the sound of this intelligence Edward Cossey’s wliole de- 
meanor underwent the most startling transformation — his 


44 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


languor vanished, his* eye brightened, and his form became 
instinct with active life and beauty. 

“What the deuce,” he said, and then paused, “ I won’t 
have it,” he went on, jumping up — “ I won’t have it. I am 
not particularly fond of old De la Molle, perhaps because he 
is not particularly fond of me,” he added, rather drolly, “ but 
it would be an infernal shame to break up that family and sell 
the house under them. Why, they would be ruined. And 
then there’s Ida — Miss De la Molle, I mean — what would be- 
come of her? And the old place too. After being in the 
family for all these centuries, I suppose it would be sold to 
some confounded counter-skipper or some retired thief of a 
lawyer. It must be prevented at any price — do you hear, 
Quest? ” 

The lawyer winced a little at his chiefs contemptuous allu 
sion, and then remarked, with a smile, “ I had no idea that you 
were so sentimental, Mr. Cossey, or that you took such a 
lively interest in Miss De la Molle,” and he glanced up to ob- 
serve the effect of his shot. 

Edward Cossey colored. “ I did not mean that I took any 
particular interest in Miss De la Molle,” he said. “ I was re- 
ferring to the family.” 

“ Oh, quite so, though I am sure I don’t know why you 
shouldn’t. Miss De la Molle is one of the most charming 
women that I ever met, I think the most charming, if I except 
my own wife Belle,” and he again looked up suddenly at 
El ward Cossey, who, for his part, colored for the second time. 
“It seems to me,” went on the lawyer, “ that a man in your 
position has a most splendid opportunity of playing knight- 
errant to the lovely damsel in distress. Here is the lady with 
her aged father about to be sold up and turned out of the 
estates which have belonged to her family foi* generations — why 
don’t you do the generous and graceful thing, like the hero 
in a novel, and take up the mortgages?” 

Elward Cossey did not reject this suggestion with the con- 
tempt that might have been expected ; on the contrary, he 
appeared to be turning the matter over in his mind, for he 
drummed a little tune with his knuckles and stared out of the 
window. 

“ What is the sum ? ” he said, presently. 

“ Five-and-twenty thousand, and he wants four more — say 
thirty thousand.” 

“ And where am I going to find thirty thousand pounds to 
take up a bundle of mortgages which will probably never pay 
ft farthing of interest? Why, I have not got three thousand I 


COLONEL qUARlTCII, V.O. 


45 


can come at. Besides,” he added, recollecting himself, “ why 
should I. interfere in it ? ” 

“I do not think,” answered Mr. Quest, ignoring the latter 
part of tlie question, “ that with your prospects 3^011 would 
find it difficult to get thirty thousand pounds or twice thirty 
thousand pounds. I know several who would consider it an 
honor to lend the money to a Cosse3% if only for the sake of 
the introduction — that is, of course, provided the security was 
of a legal nature.” 

“Let me see the letter,” said Edward. 

Mr. Quest handed him the document conveying the com- 
mands of Cossey & Son, and he read it through twice. 

“ The old man means business,” he said as he returned it. 
“ That letter ti^as wiitten by him, and when he has once made 
up his mind, it is useless to try and stir him. Did you say 
that 3'ou were, going to see the Squire to-day? ” 

“ No, I did not say so, but as a matter of fact I am. His 
man George — a shrewd fellow, by the way, for one of these 
bumpkins — came with a letter asking me to go up to the 
Castle, so I shall get round there to lunch. It is about this 
fresh loan that the old gentleman wishes to negotiate. Of 
course I shall be obliged to tell him that instead of giving a 
fresh loan we shall have to serve a notice on him.” 

“Don’t do that just yet,” said Edward, with decision. 
“ Write to the house and say that their instructions shall be 
attended to. There is no hurry about the notice, though I 
don’t see how I am to help in the matter. Indeed, there is 
no call upon me.” 

“ Very well, Mr. Cossey. And now, by the way, are you 
going to the Castle this afternoon ? ” 

“ Yes, I believe so ; why?” 

“ Well, I want to get up there to luncheon, and I am in a 
fix. Belle will want the trap to go there this afternoon. Can 
you lend me your dog-cart to drive up, and then perhaps 3’ou 
would not mind if she gave you a lift this afternoon.” 

“Very well,” answered Edward, “that is, if it suits Mrs. 
Quest. Perhaps she may object to carting me about the 
country.” 

“I have not observed any such reluctance on her part,” 
said the lawyer, diyly ; “ but we can easily settle the ques- 
tion. I must go home to get some plans before I attend the 
vestry meeting about -that pinnacle. Will 3'ou step across 
with me and we can ask her ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” he answered, “ I have nothing particular to do.” 

And accordingly, as soon as Mr. Quest had made some 


COLONEL qUARITCB, V.O. 


AC, 

small iiTangements, and given particular directions to his 
clerks as to liis whereabouts for the day, they set off together 
for th< lawyer’s private house. 


CHAPTER VHL 

MR. quest’s wife. 

Mi. Quest lived in one of those ugly but comfortably built 
old red brick houses which abound in almost every country 
town, and which give us the clearest possible idea of the 
want of taste and the love of material comfort that charac- 
terized the gross age in which they were built. This house 
looked out on to the market-place, and had a charming old 
walled garden at the back, famous for its nectarines, wliich, 
together with the lawn-tennis court, was, as Mrs. Quest 
would say, almost enough to console her for living in a town. 
The front door, however, was only separated by a little flight 
of steps from the pavement upon which the house abutted. 

Entering into a large, cool-looking hall, Mr. Quest paused 
and asked a servant who was passing where her mistress was. 

“In the drawing-room, sir,” said the girl; and, followed 
by Edward Cossey, he made his way dowm a long pannelled 
passage till he reached a door on the left, which he opened 
quickly and passed through into a charming, modern -looking 
room, handsomely and even lu.xuriousl3' furnished, and lighted 
by French windows opening on to the walled garden. 

A little lady dressed in some black material was standing at 
one of these windows, her arms crossed behind her back, and 
absently gazing out of it. At the sound of the opening door 
she turned swiftly, her whole delicate and lovely face lighting 
up like a flower in a ray of sunshine, the lips slightly parted, 
and a deep and happy light shining in her violet e3'es. Then, 
all in an instant, it was instructive to observe hoiv, instantan- 
eously, her glance fell upon her husband (for the lady was 
Mrs Quest) and her entire expression changed to one of cold 
aversion, the light fading out of her face as it does from a 
November sk^", and leaving it cold and hard. 

Mr. Quest, who was a man who saw everything, saw this 
also, and smiled bitterly. 

“Don’t be alarmed, Belle,” he said, in a low voice; “I 
have brought Mr. Cossey with me.” 

She flushed up to the eyes, a great wave of color, and her 


47 


COLONEL QUARirCH, VC. 

breast heaved ; but before she could answer, Edward Cossey, 
who had stopped behind to wipe some mud off his shoes, 
entered the room, and politely offered his hand to Mrs. 
Quest, who took it coldly enough. 

“ You are an early visitor, Mr. Cossey,” she said. 

“ Yes,” said her husband ; “ but the fault is mine. I have 
brought Mr. Cossey over to ask you if you can give him a 
lift up to the Castle this afternoon. I have to go up there to 
lunch and have borrowed his dog-cart.” 

“Oh yes, with pleasure ; but why can’t the dog-cart come 
back for Mr. Cossej’-? ” 

“ Well, you see,” put in Edward, “there is a little difficulty ; 
my groom is sick, but there is really no reason wh}’’ you 
should be bothered. I have no doubt that a man can be 
found to bring it back.” 

“Oh, no,” she said, with a shrug; “it will be all right; 
only you had better lunch here, that’s all, because I want to 
start early, and go to an old woman’s at the other end of 
Honham about some fuchsia cuttings.” 

“ I shall be very happy,” said he. 

“Very well, then, that is settled,” said Mr. Quest; “and 
now I must get my plans and be off to that vestry meeting. 
I’m late as it is. With 3'our permission, Mr. Cossey, I will 
order the dog-cart as I pass your rooms.” 

“ Certainly,” said Edward, and in another moment the 
lawyer was gone. 

Mrs. Quest watched the door close, and then sat down in a 
low arm-chair, and resting her head upon the back, looked up 
with a steady, inquiring gaze, full into Edward Cossey’s face. 

And he too looked at her, and thought what a beautiful 
woman she was, in her own way. She was very small, round- 
ed in her figure almost to stoutness, and possessed the tiniest 
and most beautiful hands and feet. But her greatest charm 
lay in the face, which was almost infantile in its shape, and 
delicate as a moss-rose. She was exquisitely fair in coloring 
— indeed, the darkest things about her were her violet eyes, 
which in some lights looked almost black in contrast with 
her white forehead and waving auburn hair. 

Presently she spoke. 

“ Has my husband gone ? ” she said. 

“ I suppose so. Why do you ask ?” 

“ Because from what I know of his habits I should think it 
very likely that he is listening behind the door,” and she 
laughed faintly. 

“ You seem to have a good opinion of him.” 


48 


COLONEL qUAUITCn, V.O. 


“I have exactly the opinion of him that he deserves/' she 
said, bitterly ; “ and my opinion of him is that he is one of 
the wickedest men in England.” 

“If he is behind the door he will enjoy that,” said Edward 
Gossey. “ Well, if he is all this, why did you marry him ? ” 

“ Why did I marry him ? ” she answered, wdth passion ; 
“ because I was forced into it, bullied into it, starved into it. 
What would you do if 3^011 were a defenceless, motherless 
girl of eighteen, with a drunken father who beat 3’ou — yes, 
beat 3’ou with a stick — apologized in the most gentleman-like 
way next morning, and then went and got drunk again ? And 
what would you do if that father were in the hands of a man 
like my husband, body and soul in his hands, and if betw^een 
them pressure was brought to bear, and brought to bear, un- 
til at last — There, what is the use of going on with it — you 
can guess the rest.” 

“ Well, and what did he marry you for ? — your pretty 
face?” 

“ I don’t know ; he said so ; it may have had something to 
do with it. I think it was my ten thousand pounds — for once 
I had a whole ten thousand pounds of my own ; my poor mo- 
ther left it me, and tied it up so that my father could not 
touch it. Well, of course, when I married, my husband 
would not have any settlements, and so he took it, every far- 
thing.” 

“ And what did he do with it ? ” 

“ Spent it upon some other woman in London — most of it. 
I found him out ; he gave her thousands of pounds at once.” 

“Well, I should not have thought that of him,” said he, 
with a laugh. 

She paused a moment, and covered her face wdth her 
hands, and then w^ent on: “If you only knew, Edward, if 
3'ou had the faintest idea what my life was till a year and a 
half ago, when I first saw you, j^ou -would pity me, and under- 
stand why I am bad and passionate and jealous, and every- 
thing that I ought not to be. I never had any happiness as 
a girl — how could I in such a home as ours ? — and then al- 
most before I was a woman I was handed over to that man. 
Oh, how I hated him, and what I endured.” 

“Yes, it can’t have been very pleasant.” 

“ Pleasant— but there, we have done with each other now 
—we don’t even speak much except in public, that’s my 
price for holding my tongue about the lady in London and 
one or two other little things~so what is the use of talking 
of it ? It was a horrible nightmare, but it has gone. And 


COLONEL qUARlTCE, V.O. 


49 


then,” she went on, fixing her beautiful eyes upon his face 
“ then I saw you, Edward, and for the first time in my life I 
learnt what lave was, and I think that no woman ever loved 
like that before. Other women have had something to care 
for in their lives ; I never had anything till I saw you. It 
may be wicked, but it’s true.” 

He turned slightly away and said nothing. 

“And yet, dear,” she went on in a low voice, “I think it 
has been one of the hardest things of all — my love for you. 
For, Edward,” and she rose and took his hand and looked in- 
to his face with her soft eyes full of tears, “I should have 
liked to be a blessing to you and not a curse — and-^a cause 
of sin. Oh, Edward, I should have made you such a good 
wife, no man could have had a better ; and I would have 
heljDed you too, for I am not such a fool as I seem, and now 
I shall do nothing but bring trouble upon you ; I know I 
shall. And it was my fault too, at least most of it ; don’t 
ever think that I deceive myself, for I don’t ; I led you on, I 
know I did, I meant to — there ! Think me as shameless as 
you like, I meant to from the first. And no good can come 
of it, I know that, although I would not have it undone. No 
good can ever come of w'hat is wrong. I may be very wicked, 
but I know' that,” and she began to cry outright. 

This was too much for Edward Cossey, who, as any man 
must, had been much touched by this unexpected outburst 
“ Look here. Belle,” he blurted out on the impulse of the 
moment, “l am sick and tired of all this sort of thing. For 
more than a year my life has been nothing but a living lie, 
and I can’t stand it, and that’s a fact. I tell you what it is: 
I think we had better just take the train to Paris and go off 
at once, or else give it all up. It is impossible to go on living 
in this continual atmosphei’e of falsehood.” 

She stopped crying. “Do you really care for me enough 
for that, Edward?” she, said. 

“Yes, yes,” he said, somewhat impatiently; “you can see 
I do, or I should not make the offer. Say the word and I’ll 
do it.” 

She thought for a moment, and then looked up .again, 
“No,” she said — “no, Edw'ard.” 

“Why?” he asked ; “are you afraid ?” 

“Afraid,” she answered, with a gesture of contempt ; “ what 
have I to be afraid of ? Do you suppose that such a woman 
as I am has any care for consequences? We have got beyond 
that— that is, for ourselves. But we can still feel a little for 
others. It would ruin you to do such a thing, socially and in 
4 


50 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


every other way. You know that you have often said that 
your father would cut you out of his will if you compromised 
yourself and him like that.” 

“ Oh yes, he would do that. I am sure of it. He would 
never forgive the scandal ; he has a hatred of that sort of 
thing. But I could get a few thousands ready money, and 
change our names, and go off to some colony or something.” 

“It is very good of you to say so,” she said, humbly. “I 
don’t deserve it, and I will not take advantage of you. You 
will be sorry that you made the offer by to-morrow. Ah, yes, 
I know it is only because I cried. No, we must go on as we 
are till the end comes, and then you can discard me ; for all 
the blame will follow me, and I shall deserve it too, for I am 
older than you, you know, and a woman, and my husband 
will make some money out of you, and then it will be all for- 
gotten, and I shall have had my day and go my own way to 
oblivion, like thousands of other unfortunate women before 
me, and it will all be the same a hundred years hence, don’t 
you see. But, Edward, remember one thing. Don’t play me 
any tricks, for I am not of the sort to bear it. Have patience 
and wait for the end, for these things never last very long, 
and I shall never be a burden on you. Don’t desert me or 
make me jealous, for I cannot bear it, I cannot indeed, and I 
do not know what I might do — make a scandal or kill myself 
or you, I’m sure I can’t say what. You nearly sent me wild 
the other day when you were carrying on with Miss De la 
Molle — ah, yes, I saw it all — I have suspected you for a long 
time, and sometimes I think that you are really in love with 
her. And now, sir, I tell you what it is, we have had enough 
of this melancholy talk to last me for a month. What did 
you come here for at all this morning, just when I wanted to 
get you out of my head for an hour or two and think about 
my garden? I suppose it was all a trick of Mr. Quest’s 
bringing you here. He has got some fresh scheme on, I am 
sure of it from his face. Well, it can’t be helped, and since 
you are here, Mr. Edward Cossey, tell me how you like my 
new dress,” and she posed herself and courtesied before him. 
“Black, you see, to match my sins and show off my com- 
plexion. Doesn’t it fit well ? ” 

“ Charmingly,” he said, laughing in spite of himself, for 
he felt in no laughing mood, “and now I tell ,you what it is. 
Belle, I am not going to stop here all the morning, and lunch, 
and all that sort of thing. It does not look well, to say the 
least of it. The probability is that half the old women in 
Boisingham have got their eyes fixed on the hall door to see 


COLON KL QUARirCH, V.C. 51 

how long I stay. I shall go down to the office and come back 
at half past two.” 

“ A very nice excuse to get rid of me,” she said ; “ but I dare 
say yon are right, and I want to see about the gardeu. There, 
good-by, and mind you are not late, for I want to have a nice 
drive round to the Castle. Not that there is much need to 
warn you to be in time when you are going to see MissDe la 
Molle, is there ? Good-b3% good-by.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE SHADOW OF RTIIN. 

Mr. Quest departed to his vestry meeting with a smile 
upon his thill, gentlemanly -looking face, and with rage and 
bitterness in his heart. 

“ I caught her that time,” he said to himself ; “ she 
can do a good deal in the way of deceit, but she can’t keep 
the blood out of her cheeks when she hears that fellow’s 
name. How she did color up to be sure ! But she is a clever 
w’oman. Belle is : how well she managed that little business 
about the luncheon, and how well she fought her case when 
once she got me in a cleft stick about Edith and that money 
of hers, and made good terms, too ! Ah, that’s the worst of 
it, she has the whip-hand of me there ; if I could ruin her, 
she could ruin me, and it’s no use cutting off one’s nose to 
spite your face. But, ah, my fiue^ lady,” he ^yent on, with .an 
ominous flash of his gray eyes, “I shall have j^ou yet ! Give 
5'ou enough rope and j^ou will hang yourself. You love this 
fellow, I know that, and it will go hard if I can’t make him 
break your heart for you. Bah ! you don’t know the sort of 
stuff men are made of. If only I did not happen to be in 
love \vitb you myself I should not care. If — Ah, here I am 
at the church. ” 

The human animal is a very complicated machine, and can 
conduct the working of an extraordinary number of different 
interests and sets of ideas, almost, if not entirely, simultane- 
ously. For instance, Mr. Quest — seated at the right hand of 
the rector in the vestry-room of the beautiful old Boisingham 
Church, and engaged in an animated and even warm discus- 
sion with the senior curate on the details of fourteenth cen- 
tury church work, in which he clearly took a lively interest 
and understood far better than did the curate — would have 


52 COLONEL QUAniTCH, V.a 

been exceedingly difficult to identify with the scheming, vin- 
dictive creature whom we have just followed up the church 
path. But, after all, that is the way of human nature, al- 
though it may not be the way of those who try to draw it 
and who love to paint tbe villain black as your hat, and the 
virtuous heroine so radiant that you begin to fancy you hear 
the whispering of her wdngs. Few people are altogether 
good or altogether bad ; indeed it is probable that the vast 
majority are neither good nor bad — they have not the strength 
to be either the one or the other. Here and there how^ever, 
one does meet with a spirit with sufficient will and originality 
to press the scale down this w’ay or that, though even then 
the opposing force, be it good or evil, is constantly striving 
to bring the balance equal. Even the most wicked men 
have their redeeming points and their righteous instincts, 
nor are their thoughts continually fixed upon iniquity. Mr. 
Quest, for instance, one of the evil geniuses of this history, 
was, where his plots and passions were not immediately con- 
cerned, a man of eminently generous and refined tendencies. 
Many were the good turns, contradictory as it may seem, 
that he had done to his poorer neighbors ; he had even been 
known to forego his bills of costs, which is about the highest 
and rarest exhibition of earthly virtue that can be expected 
from a lawj^er. He was, moreover, eminently a cultured 
man, a reader of the classics in translations, if not in the 
originals, a man with a fine taste in fiction and poetry, and a 
really sound and ripe archaeological knowledge, especially 
where sacred buildings w^ere concerned. All his instincts, 
moreover, w^ere toward respectability. His most burning 
ambition -was to secure a high position in the county in which 
he lived, and to be classed among the resident gentry. He 
hated his lawyer’s work, and longed to accumulate sufficient 
means to be able to give it the good-by and to indulge him- 
self in an existence of luxurious and learned leisure. Such 
»as he was he had made himself, for he w’as the son of a poor 
and inferior country dentist, and had begun life with a good 
education, it is true, which he chiefly owed, however, to his 
own exertions, but with nothing else. Had his nature been a 
temperate nature, with a balance of good to its credit to draw 
upon, instead of a balance of evil, he was a man who might 
have gone very far indeed, for in addition to his natural 
ability he had a great power of work. But unfortunately 
this was not the case, his instincts on the whole were evil in- 
stincts, and his passions, whether of hate, or love, or desire, 
or greed, when they seized him did so with extraordinary 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C 


53 


violence, rendering him for the time being utterly- callous to 
the rights or feelings of others, provided that he attained his 
end. In short, had he been born to a good position dud 
large fortune, it is quite possible, providing alwa3’s that his 
strong passions had not at some period of his life led him 
irremediably astray, that he would have lived virtuous and 
respected, and died in good odor, leaving behind him a 
happy memory. But fate had placed him in antagonism 
with the world, and yet had endowed him with a gnawing 
desire to be of the world as it appeared most desirable to 
him ; and then, to complete his ruin, fate had thrown him 
into temptations from which inexperience and the headlong 
strength of his passions gave him no opportunity to escape. 
It may at first appear strange that a man so calculating, and 
whose desires seemed to be fixed upon such a material end 
as the acquirement of wealth which he coveted, by artifice or 
even fraud, should also nourish in his heart so bitter a hatred 
and so keen a thirst for revenge upon a woman who had 
been unfaithful to him as Mr. Quest undoubtedly did toward 
his beautiful wife. It would have seemed more probable 
that he would have left heroics alone, and attempted to turn 
his wife’s passion into a means of wealth and self-advance- 
ment ; and tliis would no doubt have been so had his wife’s 
estimate of his motives in marrying her been an entirely cor- 
rect one. She had told her lover, it will be remembered, 
that her husband had married her for her money — the ten 
thousand pounds of which he stood so badly in need. Now 
this was the truth to a certain extent, and a certain extent 
only. He had wanted the ten thousand pounds ; in fact, at 
the moment money was necessary to him. But — and this 
his wife had never known or realized — he had been, and still 
was, also in love wdth her. Possibly the ten thousand pounds 
would have proved a sufficient inducement to him without the 
passion, but the passion was none the less there. Their re- 
lations, however, had never been happy ones. She had de- 
tested him from the first, and had not sj)ared to say so. 
No man with any refinement — and whatever he lacked, Mr. 
Quest had refinement— could bear to be thus continually 
repulsed b^" a woman, and so it came to pass that their re- 
lations had always been of the most strained nature. Then 
when she at last had obtained the clew to the secret of his 
life, under threat of exposure she drove her bargain, of 
which the terms were complete separation in all but outward 
form, and virtual freedom of action for herself. This, con- 
sidering the position, she was perhaps justified in doing, but 


54 


COLONEL QUARJTCH, V.C 


lier husband never forgave her for it. More than that, he 
determined, if by any means it were possible, to turn the pas- 
sicfti which, although she did not know it, he was perfectly 
aware she bore toward his business superior, Edward 
Cossey, to a refined instrument of vengeance against her, 
with what success it will be one of the purposes of this his- 
tory to sliow. 

Such were, put as briefly as possible, the outlines of tlie 
character and aims of this remarkable and contradictory man, 
whose history, had he but possessed a sense of honor, might 
very probably have been painted in very different colors. 

AVithin an hour and a half of leaving his own house, “ The 
Oaks,” as it was called, although the trees from which it had 
been so named had long since vanished from the garden, Mr. 
Quest was bowling swiftly behind Edward Cossey’s pow^erful 
bay horse toward the towering gateway of Honham Castle. 
When he was within three hundred yards he pulled the horse 
up sharply, for he was a good whip and alone in the dog- 
cart, and paused to admire the* view. “What a beautiful 
place ! ” he reflected to himself with enthusiasm, “ and how 
grandly those old towers stand out against the sky ! The 
old Squire has restored them very well, too, there is no doubt 
about it ; I could not have done it better mj^self. I wonder 
if that place will ever be mine ? Things look black now, but 
the}^ may come round, and I think I am beginning to see my 
way.” And tlien he started the horse on again, slowly re- 
flecting on the unpleasant nature of the business before him. 
Personally he rather liked and respected the old Squire, and 
he certainly pitied him, though he would no more have 
dreamed of allowing his liking and pity to interfere with the 
prosecution of his schemes than an ardent sportsman would 
dream of not shooting pheasants because he had happened to 
take a friendly interest in their nurture. He had a certain 
gentlemanlike distaste to being the bearer of crushing bad 
news, for Mr. Quest disliked scenes, possibly because he had 
such an intimate personal acquaintance with them. Whilst 
he was still wondering how he might best deal with the 
matter, he passed over the moat and through the ancient 
gateway which he admired so fervently, and found himself in 
front of the hall door. Here he pulled up, looking about for 
somebody to take his horse, when suddenly the Squire him- 
self emerged upon him with a rush, his pen in his hand (for 
he had been writing letters), and his white hair waving on 
the breeze. j 

“Holloa, Quest, is that you ? ” he shouted, as though his 


COLONEL QUARJTCH, V.C. 


55 


visitor had been fifty yards oft’ instead of five. I have been 
looking out for you. Here, William ! William ! ” (crescendo), 
“ William !” (fortissimo), “where on earth is that boy? I 
expect that idle fellow, George, has been sending him on 
some of his errands instead of attending to them himself. 
Whenever he is wanted to take a horse he is nowhere to be 
found, and then it is ‘ Please, sir, Mr. George,’ that’s what he 
calls him, ‘ Please, sir, Mr. George sent me up to the Moat 
Farm or somewhere to see how many eggs the hens laid last 
week,’ or something of that sort. That’s a very nice horse, 
you have got there, by the way, very nice indeed.” 

“It is not my horse, Mr. De la Molle,” said the lawyer, 
with a faint smile ; “ it is Mr. Edward Cossey’s.” 

“ Oh, it’s Mr. Edward Cossey’s, is it ? ” answered the old 
gentleman, with a sudden change of voice. “ Ah, Mr. Ed- 
ward Cossey’s ? Well, it’s a very good horse anyhow, and I 
suppose that Mr. Cossey can afford to buy good horses.” 

Just then a faint cry of “Coming, sir, coming,” was heard, 
and a long hobbledehoy kind of youth, whose business it was 
to look after the not extensive castle stables, emerged in a 
great heat round the corner of the house. 

“ Now where on earth have you been ? ” began the Squire, 
in a stentorian tone. 

“If 3^ou please, sir, Mr. George ” 

“ There, what did I tell you ? ” broke in the Squire. 
“Have I not told you time after time that 3'ou are to mind 
your own business, and leave ‘Mr. George’ to mind his? 
Now take that horse to the stables and see that it is properly 
fed.” 

“ Come in, Quest, come in. W’e have a quarter of an hour 
before luncheon, and can get our business over,” and he led 
the way into the tapestried and panelled vestibule, where he 
took up his stand befoi-e the empty fireplace. 

Mr. Quest followed him, stopping ostensibly to admire a 
particularly beautiful suit of armor which hung upon the 
wall, but really to gain another moment for reflection. 

“ A beautiful suit of the early Stuart period, Mr. De la 
Molle,” he said ; “ I never saw a better.” 

“ Yes, yes ; that belonged to old Sir James, the one whom 
the Koundheads shot.” 

“What ! the Sir James who hid the treasure ?” 

“Yes. I was telling that story to our new neighbor. Colo- 
nel Quaritch, last night — a very nice fellow, by the way ; you 
should go and call upon him.” 

“ I wonder what he did with it?” said Mr. Quest. 


56 


COLONEL QUARirCII, V.C. 


‘‘All, so do I, and so will many aDother, I dare say ; I wish 
that I could find it, I’m sure. It’s wanted badly enough nowa- 
days. But that reminds me, Quest. You will have gathered 
my difficulty from my note and what George told you. You 
see, this man Jan ter has — thanks to that confounded fellow, 
Major Boston, and his action about those college lands, 
thrown up the Moat Farm, and George tells me that there is 
not another tenant to be had for love or money. In fact, you 
know what it is — one can’t get tenants nowadays ; they sim- 
ply are not to be had. Well, under these circumstances there 
is, of course, only one thing to be done that I know of, and 
that is to take the farm in hand and farm it myself. It is 
quite impossible to let the place fall out of cultivation, and 
that is what would happen otherwise ; and if I ^vere to lay it 
down in grass it would cost a considerable sum, and be seven 
or eight years before I got any return.” 

The Squire paused and Mr. Quest said nothing. 

“ Well,” he went on, “ that being so, the next thing to do 
is to obtain the necessary cash to pay Janter his valuation and 
stock the i^lace — about four thousand would do it, or per- 
haps,” he added, witl]^ an accent of general confidence, “ we 
had better say five. There are about fifty acres of those low- 
lying meadows which want to be thoroughly bush-drained ; 
bushes are quite as good as pipes for that stiff land — if they 
put in the right sort of stuff it don’t cost half so much ; but 
still it can’t be done for nothing ; and then there is a new 
wagon -shed wanted, and some odds and ends ; yes, we had 
better say five thousand.” 

Still Mr. Quest made no answer, so once more the Squire 
went on. 

“ W^ell, you see, under these circumstances, not being able 
to lay hands upon the necessary capital from my private re- 
sources, of course I have made up my mind to apply to Cos- 
sey & Son for tfie loan. Indeed, considering how long and 
intimate has been the connection between their house and the 
Be la Molle family, I think it right and proper to do so ; in 
deed, I should consider it very wrong of me if I neglected to 
give them the opportunity of the investment ’’—here a faint 
smile flickered for an instant on Mr. Quest’s face and then 
went out— “ of course they will, as a matter of business, re- 
quire security, and very properly so, but as this estate is un- 
entailed, there will fortunately be little difficulty about that. 
You can draw up the necessary deeds, and I think that under 
the circumstances the right thing to do would be to charge 
the Moat Farm specifically with the amount. Things are bad 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C, 


57 


enough, no doubt, but I can hardly suppose it possible, under 
any conceivable circumstances that the farm would not be 
good for five thousand pounds. However, they might pos- 
sibly prefer to have a general clause as well, and if that is so, 
although I consider it quite unnecessary, I shall raise no ob- 
jection to that course.” 

Then at last Mr. Quest broke his somewhat ominous si- 
lence. 

“I am very sorry to say, Mr. De la Molle,” he said, gently, 
“ that I can hold out no prospect of Cossey & Son being in- 
duced, under any circumstances, to advance another pound 
upon the secunty of the Honham Castle estates. Their opin- 
ion of the value of landed property as security has received 
so severe a shock that they are not at all comfortable as to 
the safety of the amount already invested.” 

Mr. De la Molle started when he heard this most unex- 
pected bit of news, for which he was totally unprepared. He 
had always found it possible to borrow mone^', and it had 
never occurred to him that a time might perhaps come in this 
country when the land, which he held in almost superstitious 
veneration, would be so valueless a form of property that 
lenders would refuse it as security. 

“Why,” he said, recovering himself, “the total encum- 
brances on the property do not amount to more than twenty- 
riye thousand pounds, and when I succeeded to my father, 
forty v^ears ago, it was valued at fifty, and the castle and 
premises have been thoroughly repaired since then at a cost 
of five thousand, and most of the farm buildings also.” 

Very possibly, Mr. De la Molle, but to be honest, I very 
much doubt if Honham Castle and the lands round it would 
now fetch twenty-five thousand pounds on a forced sale. 
Competition and Radical agitation have brought estates down 
more than people realize, and land in Australia and New 
Zealand is worth as much per acre as cultivated lands in 
England. Perhaps as a residential property and on account 
of its historical interest it might fetch more, but I doubt it. 
In short, Mr. De la Molle, so anxious are Cossey & Son in the 
matter that I regret to have to tell you that so far from being 
willing to make a further advance, the firm have formally in- 
structed me to serve the usual six months’ notice on you, 
calling in the money already advanced on mortgage, together 
with the interest, which I must remind you is nearly a year 
overdue, and this step I propose to take to-morrow.” 

The old gentleman staggered for a moment, and caught at 
the mantel-piece, for the blow was a heavy one, and as unex- 


58 


COLONEL qUAlUTCJL V.C. 


pected as it was heavy. But he recovered himself in an in- 
stant, for it was one of the peculiarities of his character that 
his spirits always seemed to rise to the occasion in the face of 
urgent adversity— in short, he possessed an extraordinary 
share of moral pluck. 

“Indeed,” he said, indignantly, “indeed, it is a pity that 
3^ou did not tell me that at once, Mr. Quest ; it would have 
saved me from putting myself in a false position by propos- 
ing a business arrangement which is not acceptable. As re- 
gards the interest, I admit that is as you say, and I very much 
regret it. That stupid fellow George is always so dreadfully 
behindhand with his accounts that I can never get anything 
settled” (he did not state, and indeed did not know, that the 
reason that the unfortunate George was behindhand was that 
there -were no accounts to make up, or rather that they were 
all on the wrong side of the ledger). “I will have that mat- 
ter seen to at once. Of course business people are quite 
right to consider their due, and I do not blame Messrs. Cos- 
sey in the matter, not in the least. Still, I must say that, 
considering the long and intimate relationship that has for 
nearly two centuries existed between their house and my 
family, they might — well — have shown a little more consider- 
ation.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Quest, “ I dare say that the step strikes 
you as a harsh one. To be perfectly frank wuth you, Mr. De 
la Molle, it struck me as a very harsh one ; but, of course, I 
am only a servant, and bound to carry out my instructions. 
I sympathize with j'ou very much — very much indeed.” 

“ Oh, don’t do that,” said the old gentleman. “ Of course 
other arrangements must be made ; and, much as it will pain 
me to terminate my connection with Messrs. Cossey, they 
shall be made.” 

“ But I think,” went on the lawyer, without any notice of 
his interruption, “ that you misunderstand the matter a little. 
Cossey & Son are only a trading corporation, whose object is 
to make money by lending it, or otherwise — at all hazards to 
make money. The kind of feeling that you allude to, and 
that might induce them, in consideration of long intimacy and 
close connection in the past, to forego the opportunity of so 
doing and even to run a risk of loss, is a thing wijich belongs 
to former generations, which, w’hatever their failings, were 
veiy often generous in their dealings, and allow^ed their busi- 
ness to be sometimes conducted upon personal rather than 
commercial principles. But the present is a strictly com- 
mercial age, and we are the most commercial of tne trading 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


59 


nations. Cossey & Son move with the times, that is all, and 
they would rather sell up a dozen families which had dealt 
with them for two centuries than lose five hundred pounds, 
provided, of course, that they could do so without scandal 
and loss of general respect, which, where a banking house is 
concerned, also means a loss of custom. I am a great lover of 
the past myself, and believe that our ancestors’ ways of doing 
business were, on the whole, better and more charitable thnii 
ours, but I have to make my living and take the world as I 
find it, Mr. De la Molle.” 

“ Quite so. Quest ; quite so,” answered the Squire,- quietly. 
“ I had no idea that you looked at these matters in such a 
light. Certainly the world has changed a good deal since I 
was a young man, and I do not think it has changed much 
for the better. But you will want your luncheon ; it is hun- 
gry work talking about foreclosures.” Mr. Quest had not 
used this unpleasant word, but the Squire had seen his drift. 
“ Come into the next room,” and he led the way into the 
drawing-room, where Ida was sitting reading the Times. 

Ida,” he said, with an affectation of heartiness which did 
not, however, deceive his daughter, who knew how to read 
every change of her father’s face, “here is Mr. Quest. Take 
him into luncheon, my dear. I wiU come presently. I want 
to finish a note.” 

Then he returned to the vestibule and sat down in his fa- 
vorite old oak chair. 

“Euined,” he said to himself. “I can never get the money 
as things are, and there will be a foreclosure. Well, I am an 
old man, and I hope I shall not live to see it. But there is 
Ida. Poor Ida ! I cannot bear to think of it, and the old 
place too, after all these generations— after all these genera- 
tions.” 


CHAPTEK X. 

THE TENNIS PARTY. 

Ida shook hands coldly enough with the lawyer, for whom 
she cherished a great dislike not unmixed with fear. Many 
women are by nature gifted with an extraordinary power of 
intuition which fully makes up for their deficiency in reason- 
ing force. Tliey do not conclude from the premises of their 
observation, they know that this man is to be feared and that 
trusted. In fact, woman shares with the rest of breathing 


60 


COLONEL qVARITCH, KO. 


creation that self-protective instinct of instantaneous and al- 
most automatic judgment given to guard it from the dangers 
with which it is continually threatened at the hands of man’s 
overmastering strength and ordered intelligence. Ida knew 
nothing to Mr. Quest’s disadvantage, indeed, she always 
heard him spoken of with great respect, and curiously enough 
she liked his wife very much. But she could not bear the 
man, feeling in her heart that he was not only to be avoided 
on account of his own hidden qualities, but that he was more- 
over an active personal enemy. 

They went into the old dining-room, where the luncheon 
was set, and while Ida allowed Mr. Quest to cut her some cold 
boiled beef, an operation in which he did not seem to be very 
much at home, she came to a rapid conclusion in her own 
mind. She had seen clearly enough from her father’s face 
that his interview with the lawyer had been of a most serious 
character, but she knew that the chances were that she would 
never be able to get its upshot out of him, for the old gentle- 
man had a curious habit of keeping such unpleasant matters 
to himself until he Avas absolutely forced by circumstances to 
reA^eal them. She also knew that her father’s affairs Avere in a 
most critical condition, for that she had extracted from him 
on the previous night, and if any remedy was to be attempt- 
ed it must be attempted at once, and on some heroic scale. 
Therefore she made up her mind to ask her bcte noir, Mr. 
Quest, Avhat the truth might be. 

“ Mr. Quest,” she said, with some trepidation, as he at last 
triumphantly handed her the beef, “I hope that you will for- 
give me for asking you a plain question, and that, if j^ou can, 
you Avill favor me wdth a plain answer. I know my father’s 
affairs are very much involved, and that he is now anxious to 
borrow some more money ; but I do not know quite how 
matters stand, and I want to hear the exact truth.” 

“I am very glad to hear you speak like that, Miss De la 
Molle,” answered the laAvyer, “ because I was trying to make 
up my mind to broach the subject, Avhich is a very painful 
one to me. Frankly, then, forgive. me for saying it, your fa- 
ther is absolutely ruined. The interest on the mortgages is 
a year in arrear ; his largest farm is just throAvn upon his 
hands, and, to complete the tale, the mortgagees are going 
to call in their money or foreclose.” 

At this statement, which was almost brutal in its brief 
comprehensiveness, Ida turned as pale as death, as well she 
might, and dropped her fork with a clatter upon her plate. 

‘‘ I did not realize that things Avere quite so bad,” she mur- 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


61 


mured. “Then I suppose that the place will be taken from 
us, and we shall — shall have to go awa}-.” 

“ Yes, certainly, unless money can be found to take up the 
mortgages, of which I see no chance. The place will be sold 
for what it will fetch, and that nowadays will be no great 
sum.” 

“ When will that be ? ” she asked. 

“ In about six or nine months’ time.” 

Ida’s lips trembled, and the sight of the food upon her 
plate became nauseous to her. A visioh arose before her 
mind s eye of herself and her old father departing hand in 
hand from the castle gates, behind and about which gleamed 
the hard wild lights of a March sunset, to seek a place to hide 
themselves, and the horror of it almost overcame her. 

“Is there no way of escape?” she asked, hoarsel3^ “To 
lose this place would kill my father. He loves it better than 
anything in the world ; his whole life is wrapped up in it.” 

“ I can quite understand that, Miss De la Molle ; it is a 
most charming old place, especially to an^-body interested in 
the past. But unfortunately mortgagees are no respecters of 
feelings. To them land is so much property and nothing 
more.” 

“ I know all that,” she said, impatiently ; “j^ou do not an- 
swer my question,” and she leaned toward him and rested her 
hand upon the table. “ Is there no way out of it ? ” 

Mr. Quest drank a little claret before he answered. “Yes,” 
he said, “ I think that there is, if only 3’ou will take it.” 

“ What way ? ” she asked, eagerty. 

“ Well, though, as I said just now, the mortgagees of an es- 
tate as a bod}- are merely a business corporation, and look at 
things from a business point of view onl}", you must remem- 
ber that they are composed of individuals, and that individu- 
als can be influenced if they can be got at. For instance, 
Cossey & Son are an abstraction and. harshly disposed in their 
.abstract capacit}^ but Mr. Edward Cossey is an individual, 
and I should say, so far as this particular matter is concerned, 
a benevolently disposed individual. Now Mr. Edward Cossey 
is not himself at the present moment actually one of the Ann 
of Cossey & Son, but he is the heir of the head of the house, 
and of course has authority, and, what is better still, the com- 
mand of money.” 

“I understand,” said Ida. “You mean that my father 
should try to win over Mr. Edward Cossey. Unfortunately, 
to be frank, he dislikes him, and my father is not a man to 
keep his dislikes to himself.” 


62 


COLONEL qUABITCH, V.C 


“ People generally do dislike those to whom they are crush- 
ingly indebted ; your father dislikes Mr. Cossey because his 
name is Cossey, and for no other reason. But that is not 
quite what I meant— I do not tlunk that the Squire is the 
right person to undertake a negotiation of that sort. He is 
a little too outspoken and incautious. No, Miss De la Molle, 
if it is to be done at all you must do it. You must put the 
whole case before him at once — this very afternoon ; there is 
no time for delay. You rfeed not enter into details ; he knows 
all about them — only ask him to avert this catastrophe. He 
can do so if he likes ; how he does it is his own affair ! ” 

“But, Mr. Quest,” said Ida, “how can I ask such a favor 
of any man? I shall be putting myself in a dreadfully false 
position.” 

“ I do not pretend, Miss De la Molle, that it is a pleasant 
task for any young lady to undertake ; I quite understand 
your shrinking from it. But sometimes one has to do unpleas- 
ant things and make compromises with one’s self-respect. It 
is a question whether or no your family shall be utterly ruined 
.and destroyed. There is, as I* honestly believe, no prospect 
whatever of your father being able to get the money to pay 
off Cossey & Son, and if he did, it ^vould not help him, because 
he could not pay the interest on it. Under these circumstan- 
ces you have to choose between putting yourself in an equivo- 
cal position and letting events take their course. It would 
be useless for anybody else to undertake the task, and of 
course I cannot guarantee that even you will succeed, but I 
will not mince matters ; as you doubtless know, any man 
would find it hard to refuse a favor asked by such a suppliant. 
And now you must make up your own mind. I have shown 
you a path that may lead your family from a position of the 
most imminent peril. If you are the woman I take you for, 
you will not shrink from following it.” 

Ida made no reply, and in another moment the Squire 
came in to take a couple of glasses of sherry and a biscuit. 
But Mr. Quest, furtively watching her face, said to himself 
that she had taken the bait and that she would do it. Shortly 
after this a diversion occurred, for the clergyman, Mr. Jeffries, 
a pleasant little man, with a round and shining face and a 
most unclerical e^’e-glass, came up to consult the Squire upon 
some matter of parish business, and was shown into the din- 
ing room. Ida took advantage of his appearance to effect a 
retreat to her own room, and there for the present we may 
leave her to her meditations. 

No more business was discussed by the Squire that after- 


COLON RL QUARITCIL V.C\ 


63 


noon, Indeed, it interested Mr. Quest, who was above all 
things a student of character, to observe how wonderfully the 
old gentleman threw off his trouble. To listen to him ener- 
getically arguing away with the Rev. Mr. Jeffries as to 
whether or no it would be proper, as had hitherto been the 
custom, to devote the proceeds of the harvest festival collec- 
tion (£1 18s. 3i/. and a brass button) to the county hospital, 
or whether it should be applied to the repair of the wood- 
work in the vestry, w'as, under the circumstances, most 
instructive. The Rev. Mr. Jeffries, who suffered severely 
from the condition of the vestry, at last gained his point by 
triumphantly showing that no patient from Honham had been 
admitted to the hospital for fifteen months, and that there- 
fore the hospital had no particular claim on this particular 
3 ’ear, whereas the draught in the vestry was enough to cut 
any clergyman in two. 

“ Well, w^ell,” said the old gentleman, “ I will consent for 
this year, and this 3 'ear onl 3 \ I have been church-'warden of 
this parish for between forty and fifty years, and we have 
always given the harvest festival collection to the hospital, 
and although under these exceptional circumstances it may 
possibly be desirable to diverge from that custom, I cannot 
and will not consent to such a thing in a permanent wa}’. So 
I shall write to the secretary and explain the matter, and tell 
him that next j^ear and in the future generally the collection 
will be devoted to its original purpose.” 

“ Great heavens ! ” ejaculated Mr. Quest to himself. “And 
all the time the man must know that in all human probability 
the place will be sold over his head before he is a year older. 
I wonder if he puts it on or if he deceives himself. I suppose 
he has lived here so long that he cannot realize a condition of 
things when he will cease to live here and the place will be- 
long to somebody else. Or perhaps he is only brazening it 
out.” And then he strolled away to the back of the house, 
and had a look at the condition of the out-houses, reflecting 
that some of them would be sadly expensive to repair for 
whoever came into possession here. After that he crossed the 
moat and walked through the somewhat extensive plantations 
at the back of the house, wondering if it would not be pos- 
sible to get enough timber out of them, if one went to work 
judiciously, to pay for putting the place in order. Presently 
he came to a spot where there had been a line of very fine 
timber oaks in a hedge-row of which the Squire had been 
notoriously fond, and of which he had himself taken partic- 
ular and admiring notice in the course of the previous winter. 


64 


COLONEL qUARITCn, F.a 


The trees were gone. In the hedge where they had stood 
were a- series of gaps like those in an old woman’s jaw, and 
about upon the ground were littered remains of bark and 
branches and of fagots that had been made up of the brush- 
wood. “ Cut down this sin’ing fell,” was Mr. Quest’s ejacula- 
tion. “ Poor old fellow, he must have been pinched before 
he consented to part with those oaks ! ” 

Then he turned and went back to the house, just in time 
to see Ida’s guests arriving for the lawn-tennis party. Ida 
herself was standing on the lawn behind the house, which, 
bordered as it was by the moat and at the farther end by a 
row of ruined arches, was one of the most picturesque in the 
country and a most effective setting to any young lady. As 
the people came they were shown through the house on the 
lawn, and here she was receiving. She was dressed in a plain, 
tight-fitting gown of blue flannel, which show'ed off her per- 
fect figure to great advantage, and a broad-brimmed hat, 
which shaded her fine but somewhat dignified face. Mr. 
Quest sat down on a bench beneath the shade of an arbutus, 
watching her closely ; and, indeed, if the stud}" of a perfect 
English lady of the noblest sort has any charms, he was not 
without his reward. There are some women — most of us 
know one or two — who are born to hold a great position, and 
to sail across the world like a swan through meaner fowl. It 
would be very hard to say to what their peculiar charm and 
dignity is owing. It is not to beauty only, for though they 
have presence, many of these women are not beautiful, while 
some are even plain. Better not — this face has been so often 
described in difierent and non-accordant terms. Nor does it 
spring from native grace and tact alone ; though these things 
must be present. Ratlier is it the reflection of a cultivated 
mind acting upon a naturally pure and elevated temperament, 
which makes these ladies consjDicuous [fbove the level of their 
sex, and fashions them in such kind that all men looking upon 
them and putting aside the mere charm of beauty and the 
natural softening of judgment in the atmosphere of sex, 
must recognize in them an equal mind, and a presence more 
noble than their own. 

It was while Mr. Quest was still watching Ida with com- 
plete satisfaction — for she appealed to the artistic side of his 
nature — that Colonel Quaritch arrived upon the scene; look- 
ing, Mr. Quest thought, particularly plain with his solid form, 
his long thin nose, light whiskers, and square and massive 
chin. Also he looked particularly imposing in contrast to the 
youths and maidens and domesticated clergymen. There 


COLOj^EL qUARirCH, V,G. 


65 


was a gravity, almost a solemnity, about bis bronzed coun- 
tenance and deliberate, ordered conversation, which did not, 
however, favorably impress the aforesaid youths and maidens, 
if a judgment might be formed from such samples of conver- 
sational criticism which Mr. Quest heard going on on the 
farther side of his arbutus. 


CHAPTER XL 

roA’s BARGAIN. 

When Ida saw the Colonel coming, she put on her sweetest 
smile and took his hand. 

“How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?” she said. “It is 
very good of j^ou to come, especially as you don’t play tennis 
much. By the way, I lioj^e you have been studying that 
cipher, for I am sure that it is a cipher.” 

“ I studied it for half an hour before I went to bed last 
night, Miss De la Molle, and for the life of me I could not 
make anything out of it ; and what’s more, I don’t think that 
there is anything to make out.” 

“ Ah,” she answered, with a sigh, “ I wish there was ! ” 

“ Well,” he replied, “ I’ll have another go at it. What will 
you give me if I find it out ? ” he said, with a smile which 
hghted up his rugged face most pleasantly. 

“ Anything you like to ask and that I can give,” she an- 
swered, with a tone of earnestness which struck him as 
peculiar, for of course he did not know the tale that she had 
just heard from Mr. Quest. 

Then for the first time for many years Harold Quaritch 
delivered himself of a speech that might have been capable 
of a tender and hidden meaning. 

“ I am afraid,” he said, bowing, “ that if I came to claim 
the reward, I should ask for more even than you would be 
inclined to give.” 

Ida blushed a little. “ We can consider that when you do 
come. Colonel Quaritch ; excuse me, but here are Mrs. Quest 
and Mr. Cossey, and I must go and say how do you do.” 

Harold Quaritch looked around, feeling unreasonably irri- 
tated at this interruption to his little advances, and for the 
first time saw Edward Cosse3\ He was coming along in the 
wake of Mrs, Quest, looking very handsome and rather 
$ 


66 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


languid, when their eyes met, and to speak the truth, the 
Colonel’s first impression was not a complimentary one. 
Edward Cossey was in some w'ays not a bad fellow, but like a 
great many young men who are born with silver spoons in 
their mouths, he had many airs and graces, one of which was 
the affectation of treating older and better men with an as- 
sumption of off-handedness and even of suj^eriority which 
was rather obnoxious. Thus while Ida was greeting Mrs. 
Quest, he was engaged in taking the Colonel in in a way that 
irritated that gentleman considerably. • 

Presently Ida turned and introduced Colonel Quaritch, first 
to Mrs. Quest and then to Mr. Cosse3% Harold bowed to 
eacli, and then strolled off to meet the Squire, whom he noted 
advancing with his usual array of towels hanging out of his 
hat, and for a while he saw neither of them any more. 

Meanwhile Mr. Quest had emerged from the shelter of his 
arbutus, and was going from one person to another, saying 
some pleasant and appropriate word to each, till at last he 
reached the spot where his wife and Edward Cossey were 
standing. Nodding affectionately at the former, he asked 
her if she was not going to play tennis, and then drew Cossey 
aside. 

“Well, Quest,” said the latter, “have you told the old 
man ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I told him.” 

“ How did he take it?” 

“ Oh, talked it off, and said that of course o.ther arrange- 
ments must be made. I spoke to Miss De la Molle too.” 

“ Oh,” said Edward, in a change'd tone ; “and how did she 
take it ? ” 

“ Well,” answered the lawyer, putting on an air of deep 
concern (and as a matter of fact he really did feel sorry for 
her), “ I tliink it was the most painful professional experience 
that I ever had. The poor woman was utterly crushed. 
She said that it would kill her father.” 

“Poor girl ! ” said Mr. Cossey, in a voice that showed his 
sympathy was of a very active order ; “ and how pluckily she 
is carrying it off too— look at her,” and he pointed to wdiere 
Ida was standing, a lawn-tennis bat in her hand, and laugh- 
ingly arranging a “ set ” of married single. 

“Yes, she is a good, plucky girl,” answered Mr. Quest; 
“ and what a splendid woman she looks, doesn’t she ? I never 
saw anybody who was quite such a lady ; there is nobody to 
touch her around here — unless,” he added, meditatively, 
“ perhaps, it is Belle.” 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


^ 67 

“ They are different types of beauty/’ answered Edward 
Cossey, flinching. 

“ Yes, but equally attractive in their separate ways. Well, 
it can’t be helped, but I feel sorry for that poor girl, and the 
old gentleman too — Hullo ! there he is.” 

As he was speaking, the Squire, who was walking past with 
Colonel Quaritch, with the object of showing him the view 
from the end of the moat, suddenly saw Edward Cossey, who 
at once stepped forward to greet him, but to his surprise was 
met by a cold and most stately bow from Mr. De la Molle, 
who passed on without vouchsaflng a single word. 

“Old idiot !” ejaculated Mr. Quest to himself; “he will 
put the banker’s back up and spoil the game.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Cossey aloud, and coloring almost to his 
eyes, “ that old gentleman knows how to be insolent.” 

“ You must not mind him, Mr. Cossey,” answered Quest, 
hastily. “ The poor old boy has got a veiy good idea of him- 
self ; he is dreadfully injured because Cossey & Son are call- 
ing in the mortgages after the family has dealt with them for 
so manv generations ; and he thinks that you have something 
to do with it.” 

“ Well, if he does, he might as well be civil. It does not 
particularly incline a fellow to go out of his wa}^ to pull him 
out of the ditch, just to be cut in that fashion ; I have half a 
mind to order my trap and go.” 

“ No, no, don’t do that ; you must make allowances ; you 
must indeed. Look, here is Miss De la Molle coming to ask 
you to play tennis.” 

At this moment Ida arrived and took off Edward Cossey 
with her, not a little to the relief of Mr. Quest, who began to 
fear that the whole scheme was spoiled by the Squire’s un- 
fortunate magnificence of manner. 

Edward phyed his game, having Ida herself as his partner. 
It cannot be said that the set was a pleasant one for the latter, 
who, poor woman, was doing her utmost to bring up her 
courage to the point necessary to the canying out of the ap- 
peal ad mii^ericordiam which she had decided to make as soon 
as the game waS over. However, chance put an opportunity 
in her wa}", for Edward Cossey, who had a curious weakness 
for flowers, asked her if she would show him her chrysanthe- 
mums, of which she was very proud. She consented readily 
enough, and they crossed the lawn, and passing through 
some shrubbery, reached the green-house, which was placed 
at the end of the house itself. Here for some minutes they 
looked at the flowers, just now bursting into bloom, Ida, 


68 


COLONEL QVARITCH, V.O. 


who felt exceedingly nervous, was all the while wondering 
how on earth she was to broach so delicate a subject, when 
fortunately Mr. Cossey himself gave her the necessary 
opening. 

“ I can’t imagine, Miss De la Molle,” he said, “ what I can 
have done to offend your father ; he almost cut me just now.” 

“ Are you sure that he saw you, Mr. Cossey? — he is very 
absent-minded sometimes.” 

‘■Oh yes, he saw me, but when I offered to shake hands 
with him, he only bowed in rather a crushing way and passed 
on.” 

Ida broke off a Scarlet Turk from its stem, and nervously 
began to pick the bloom to pieces. 

“ Tlie fact is, Mr. Cossey — the fact is, my father, and in- 
deed I also, are in gTeat trouble just now about money mat- 
ters, you know, and my father is very apt to be prejudiced — 
in short, I rather believe that he thinks you may have some- 
thing to do with his diflaculties ; but perhaps you know all 
about it.” 

,“Iknow something. Miss De la Molle,” said he, gravely, 
“ and I hops and trust that j-ou do not believe that I have 
anything to do with the action which Cossey & Son have 
thought fit to take.” 

“ No, no,” she said, hastily ; “ I never thought anything of 
the sort ; but I know that you have influence — and, well, to 
be plain, Mr. Cossey, I implore of you to use it. Perhaps 
you will understand that it is very humiliating for me to be 
obliged to ask this, though you can never guess how humil- 
iating. Believe me, Mr. Cossey, I would never ask it for my- 
self, but it is my father — he loves this place better than his 
life ; it would be much better he should die than that he 
should be obliged to leave it ; and if this money is called in, 
that is what must happen, because the place will be sold over 
us. I believe he would go mad ; I do indeed,” and she 
stopped speaking and stood there before him, the fragment 
of tlie flower in her hand, her breast heaving with emotion. 

“What do you suggest should be done, Miss De la Molle?” 
said Edward Cossey, genth% 

“I suggest that — that — if you will be so kind, you should 
persuade Cossey & Son to forego their intention of calling in 
the money.” 

“It is quite impossible,” he answered. “My father has 
ordered the step himself, and he is a hard man. It is im- 
possible to turn him if he thinks he will lose money by turn- 
ing. You see, he is a banker, and has been handling money 


COLONEL QUAIUTCII, V.C 


69 


all his life, till it has become a sort of god to him. Really, I 
bglieve that he would rather beggar every friend he has than 
lose five thousand pounds.” 

“ Then there is no more to be said. The place must go, 
that’s all,” replied Ida, turning away her head and affecting 
to busy herself in removing some dried leaves from a chrys- 
anthemum plant. Edward, watching her, however, saw her 
shoulders shake, and a big tear fall like a rain-drop with a 
splash on the pavement, and the sight, strongly attracted as 
he was, and had for some time been, toward the young lady, 
was altogether too much for him. In an instant, moved by 
an overwhelming impulse, and something not unlike a gust 
of passion, he came to one of those determinations wRich so 
often change the whole course and tenor of men’s lives. 

“Miss De la Molle,” he said, rapidly, “there may be away 
found out of it.” 

She looked up inquiringly, and there were the tear-stains 
on her face. 

“ Somebody might take up the mortgages and pay off 
Cossey & Son.” 

“ Can 3^ou find any one who will ? ” she asked, eagerly. 

“ No — not as an investment. I understand that thirty 
thousand iDounds are required, and I tell you frankly that as 
times are I do not fol* one moment believe the place to be 
worth that amount. It is all very well for your father to talk 
about land recovering itself, but at present, at any rate, no- 
body can see the faintest chance of anything of the sort. The 
probabilities are, on the contrary,, that as the American com- 
petition increases, land will gradually sink to something like 
a praiiie value.” 

“Then how can the money be got if nobody will advance 
it? ” 

“I did not say that nobody would advance it ; I said that 
nobody would advance it as an investment. A friend might 
advance it.” 

“ And where is such a friend to be found ? He would be 
a very disinterested friend who would advance thirty thou- 
sand pounds.” 

“ Nobody in this world is quite disinterested. Miss De la 
Molle ; or at any rate very few are. What would you give 
to such a friend ? ” 

“ I would give anything and everything over which I have 
control in the world to save my father from seeing Honham 
sold over his head,” she answered, simply. 

Edward Cossey laughed a little. “ That is a large order,” 


70 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V. C. 


he said. “ Miss De la Molle, I am disposed to try and find 
the money to take up these mortgages. I have not got it, 
and I shall have to borrow it, and, what is more, I shall have 
to keep the fact that I have borrowed it a secret from my 
,5 father.” 

“It is very good of you,” said Ida, faintly. “I don’t know 
what to say.” 

For a moment he made no reply, and looking at him, Ida 
saw that his hand was trembling. 

“ Miss De la Molle,” he said, “ there is another matter 
of which I wish to speak to you. Men are sometimes put 
into strange positions, partly through their own fault, partly 
by force of circumstances, and wdien in those positions are 
forced down paths that they would not follow. Supposing, 
Miss De la Molle, that mine were some such position, and 
supposing that owing to that position I could not say to you 
words which I should wish to say^ ” 

Ida began to understand now, and once more turned aside. 

“ Supposing, however, that at some future time the diffi- 
culties of that position of which I have spoken, were to fade 
away, and I were then to speak those words, can you, suppos- 
ing all this, tell me how they would be received ? ” 

Ida paused and thought. She was a strong-natured and 
clear-headed woman, and she fully understood the position. 
On her answer would depend whether or no the thirty thou- 
sand pounds were forthcoming, and therefore whether or no 
Honham Castle would pass from her father and her race. 

“I said just now, Mr. Cossey,” she answered, coldly, “that 
I would give anything and everything over which I have 
control in the world to save my father from seeing Honham 
sold over his head. I do not wish to retract those words, 
and I think that in them you will find an answer to your 
question.” 

He colored. “ You put the matter in a very business- 
like way,” he said. 

“ It is best put so, Mr. Cossey,” she answered, with a faint 
shade of bitterness in her tone ; “ it preserves me from feel- 
ing under an obligation ; will you see my father about these 
mortgages ? ” 

“Yes, to-'morrow. And now I will say good-by to you,” 
and he took her hand, and with some little hesitation kissed 
it. She made no resistance and showed no emotion. 

“Yes,” she answered, “we have been here some time. 
Mrs. Quest will wonder what has become of you.” 

It was a random arrow, but it went straight home, and for 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


71 


the third time that day Edward Cossey reddened to the roots 
of his hair. Without answering a word he bowed and went. 

When Ida saw it she was sorry she had made the remark, 
for she had no wish to appear to Mr. Cossey (the conquest of 
whom gave her neither pride nor pleasure) in the light of a 
spiteful, or, worse still, of a jealous woman. She had indeed 
heard some talk about him and Mrs. Quest, but, not being of 
a scandal-loving disposition, it had not interested her, and 
she had almost forgotten it. Now, ho-wever, she saw that 
there w^as something in it. 

“ So that is the cliflQcult position of which he talks,” she 
said to herself ; “he wants to marry me as soon as he can 
get Mrs. Quest otf his hands. And I have consented to that, 
always provided that Mrs. Quest can be disposed of, in con- 
sideration of the receipt of a sum of thirty thousand pounds. 
And I do not like the man. It was not nice of him to make 
that bargain, though I brought it on myself. I wonder if my 
father will ever know what I have done for him, and if he 
will appreciate it if he does? Well, it is not a bad price — 
thirty thousand iDounds ; it is a good figure for any woman 
in the present state of the market.” 

And with a hard and bitter laugh, and a prescience of sor- 
row to come lying at her heart, she threw down the remains 
of the Scarlet Turk and turned away. 


CHAPTER XII. 

* GEOBGE PROPHESIES. 

Ida, for obvious reasons, saifl nothing to her father of her 
interview with Edward Cossey, and thus it came to pass that 
on the morning following the lawn-tennis party there was a 
very serious consultation between the faithful George and 
his master. It appeared to Ida, who was lying awake in her 
room, to commence somewhere about daj’break, and it cer- 
tainly continued, with short intervals for refreshment, till eleven 
o’clock in the forenoon. First the Squire explained the whole 
question to George at great length, and with a most extraor- 
dinary multiplicity of detail, for he began with his first loan 
from the house of Cossey & Son, which he had contracted a 
great many years before. x\ll this while George sat with a 
very long face, and tried to look as though he were following 
the thread of the argument, which was not possible, for his 


72 COLONEL qUARITCn, v.o. 

master had long ago lost it himself, and was mixing up the 
loan of 1863 with the loan of 1874, and the money raised on 
the severance of the entail with both, in a way which would 
have driven anybody except George, who was used to this 
sort of thing, perfectly mad. However, he sat it through, 
and when at last the account was finished, remarked that 
things “ sartainly did look queer.” 

Thereupon the Squire called him a stupid owl, and having 
by means of some test questions discovered that he knew 
very little of the details which had just been explained to him 
at such portentous length, he, in spite of the protest of the 
wretched George, who urged that they “ didn’t seem to be 
gitting no forrader somehow,” began and went through every 
word of it again. 

This brought them to breakfast-time, and after breakfast 
George’s accounts were thoroughly gone into, with the result 
that confusion was soon worse confounded, for either George 
could not keep accounts or the Squire could not follow them. 
Ida, sitting in the drawing-room, could continually hear her 
father’s ejaculatory outbursts after this kind : 

Why, 3'ou stupid donkey, you’ve added it up all wrong ; 
it’s nine hundred and fifty, not three hundred and fifty ; ” 
followed by a “ No, no. Squire ; you be a-looking on the 
wrong side — them there are the debits,” and so on, till both 
parties were fairly played out, and the only thing that re- 
mained clear was that the balance was considerably on the 
Wiong side. 

“ Well,” said the Squire at last, “ there you are, j^ou see. 
It appears to me that I am absolutely ruined, and upon my 
word I believe that it is a great deal owing to j^our stupidity. 
You have muddled and muddled and muddled till at last you 
have muddled us out of house and home.” 

“No, no, Squire ; don’t say that — don’t you say that. It 
ain’t none of my doing, for I’ve been a good servant to you if 
I haven’t had much book-larning. It’s that there dratted 
borrowing, that’s what it is, and the interest, and all the rest 
on it, and though I says it as didn’t ought, poor Mr. James — 
God rest him ! — and his free-handed ways. Don’t you say 
it’s me, Squire.” 

“ Well, well,” answered his master, “ it doesn’t much mat- 
ter whose fault it is,, the result is the same, George. I’m 
ruined, and I suppose that the place will be sold, if any- 
body can be found to buy it. The De la IMolles have been 
here between four and five centuries, and they got it by mar- 
riage with the Boisseys, who got it from the^ Norman kings. 


COLONEL QUARITOH, V.O. 


78 


and now it will go to the hammer, and be bought bj a pic- 
ture-dealer, or a manufacturer of shoddy, or some one of that 
sort. Well, everything has its end, and God’s will be done.” 

“ No, no. Squire ; don’t you talk like that,” answered 
George, with emotion. “ I can’t bear to hear you talk like 
that. And what’s more, it ain’t so,” 

“What do you mean by that ? ” asked the old gentleman, 
sharply.' “ It is so ; there’s no getting over it unless you can 
find thirty thousand pounds or thereabouts, to take up these 
mortgages with. Nothing short of a miracle can save it. 
That’s always your way. ‘ Oh, something will turn up, 
something will turn up.’ ” 

“ Then there’ll be a miracle,” said George, bringing down a 
fist like a leg of mutton wdth a thud upon the table ; “it ain’t 
no use of your talking to me, Squire. I knaw it ; I tell you 
I knaw it. There’ll never be other than a De la Molle up at 
the castle wbile we’re alive, no, nor while our children are 
alive either. If the money’s to be found, w'hj^, drat it, it will 
be found. Don’t you think that God Almighty is going to 
put none of them there counter jumpers into Honharn Castle, 
where gentlefolk have lived all these generations, because He 
ain’t. There, and that’s the truth, because I know it, and so 
help me God — and if I’m wrong, it’s a master one.” 

The Squire, who was striding up and down the room in his 
irritation, stopped suddenly in his walk, and looked at his re- 
tainer with a sharp and searching gaze upon his noble features. 
Notwithstanding his prejudices, his siinplicit}^ and his occa- 
sional absurdities, he was in his own way an able man, and an 
excellent judge of human nature. Even his prejudices w ere 
as a rule founded upon some good solid ground, only it w^as 
as a general rule impossible to get at it. Also he had a share 
of that marvellous instinct which, when it exists, registers the 
mental altitude of the minds of others with the accuracy of an 
aneroid. He could tell when a man’s w^ords rang true and w’hen 
they rang false, and, what is more, when the conviction of the 
true and the falsity of the false rested upon a substantial basis 
of fact or error. Of course the instinct was a vague and, from 
its natui-e, an indefinable one, but it existed, and in the pres- 
ent instance arose in strength. He looked at the ugly, mel- 
ancholy countenance of the faithful George with that keen 
glance of his, and observed that for the moment it w^as almost 
beautiful— beautiful in the light of conviction which shone 
upon it. He looked, and as he looked it w^as borne in upon 
him that wdiat George said was true, and that George knew it 
was true, although he did not know where the light of truth 


74 COLONEL qUARITCn, V.G. 

came from, and as lie looked, half the load fell from his 
heart. 

“Hullo, George! are 3'ou turning prophet in addition to 
your other occupations ? ” he said, cheerfully, and as he did so 
Edward Cossej^’s splendid bay horse pulled up at the door and 
the bell rang. 

“Well,” he added, as soon as he saw who his visitor was, 
“ unless I am much mistaken, we shall soon know how much 
truth there is in your prophecies now, for here comes Mr. 
Cossey himself.” 

Before George could sufficiently recover from his recent agi- 
tation to make any reply, Edward Cosse^’’, looking particularly 
handsome and rather overpowering, was shown into the room. 

The Squire shook hands with him this time, though coldly 
enough, and George touched his forelock and said, “ Sarvant, 
sir,” in the approved fashion. Thereon his master told him 
that he might retire, though he was to be sure not to go out 
of hearing, as he should want him again presen tl}". 

“Very well, sir,” answered George; “I’ll just step up to 
the Poplers. I told a man to be round there to-day, as I want 
to see if I can come to an onderstanding with him about this 
year’s fell in the big wood.” 

“There,” said the Squire, with an expression of infinite dis- 
gust— “ there, that’s just like your way, your horrid, cadging 
way ; the idea of telling a man to be ‘round about the Pop- 
lars’ some time or other to-day, because you wanted to speak 
to him about a fell 1 Why didn’t you write him a letter like 
an ordinary Christian and make an offer, instead of dodging 
him round a farm for half a day like a wild Indian ? Besides, 
the Poplars is half a milQ off’ if it’s a yard.” 

“ Lord, sir.” said George, as he retired, “ that ain’t the way 
that folks in these parts like to do business, that ain’t. Let- 
ter writing is all very well for Londoners and other furriners, 
but it don’t do here. Besides, sir, I shall hear you well 
enough up there. — Sarvant, sir,” this to Edward Cossey, and 
he was gone. 

Edward burst out laughing, and the Squire looked after 
his retaine;r with a comical air. 

“No wonder ihat the place has got in such a mess, with 
such a fellow as that to manage it ! ” he said aloud. “ The 
idea of hunting a man round the Poplars Farm like— like an 
Indian squaw ! He’s a regular cadger, that’s what he is, and 
that’s all he’s fit for. However, it’s his way of doing business, 
and I sha’n’t alter him AVell, Mr. Cossey,"” he went on, “ this 
is a very sad state of affairs, at any rate so far as I am con- 


COLONEL QUARITGIL V.C. 


'75 

cevned. I presume, of course, that you know of the steps 
which have been taken by Cossey & Son to force a foreclos- 
ure, for that is what it amounts to, though I have not as yet 
received the formal notice ; indeed, I presume that those steps 
have been taken under your advice.” 

“Yes, Mr. De la Molle, I know all about it, and here is the 
notice calling in the loans,” and he placed a folded paper on 
the table. 

“Ah,” said the Squire, “I see. As I remarked to your 
manager. Mi*. Quest, yesterday, I think that considering the 
nature of the relationship which has existed for so many gen- 
erations between our family and the business firm of which you 
are a member, considering too the peculiar circumstances in 
which the owners of land find themselves at this moment, and 
the ruinous loss — to put questions of sentiment aside — that 
must be inflicted by such sale upon the owner of property, 
that more consideration might have been shown. However, 
it is useless to try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, or 
to get blood from a stone, so I suppose that I must make the 
best of a bad job, and,” — with a most polite bow — “I really 
do not know that I have anything more to say to you, Mr. 
Cossey. I will forward the notice to my lawyers ; indeed, I 
think that it might have been sent to them in the first in- 
stance.” 

Edward Cossey had all this while been sitting on an old oak 
chair, his eyes fixed upon the ground, and slowly swinging 
his hat between his legs. Suddenly he looked up, and to the 
Squire’s surprise, said, quietly : 

“I quite agree with you. I don’t think that you can say 
anything too bad about the behavior of my people. A Shore- 
ditch Jew could not have done worse. And look here, Mr. De 
la Molle, to come to the point and prevent misunderstanding, 
I may as well say at once, that with your permission, I am 
anxious to take up these mortgages myself, for two reasons : 
I regard them as a desirable investment even in the present 
condition of land, and also I wish to save Cossey & Son from 
the discredit of the step which they meditate.” 

For the second time that morning the Squire looked up 
with the sharp and searching gaze he occasionally assumed, 
and for the second time his instinct, for he was too heady a 
man to reason overmuch, came into play, and warned him 
that in making this offer Edward Cossey had other motives 
than those which he had brought forward. He paused to 
consider what they might be. Was he anxious to get the 
estate for himself ? Was he put forward by somebody else ? 


76 


COLOmL QUAUlTCIl V.C. 


Quest, perliaps. Or was it something to do witli Ida ? The 
first alternative seemed tlie most probable to him. But what- 
ever was the lender’s object, the result to him was the same ; 
it gave him a respite. For Mr. De la Molle well knew that he 
had no more chance of raising the money from any ordinary 
source of investment than he had of altering the condition of 
agriculture. 

- “ Hum !” he said ; “this is an important matter, a most 
important matter. I presume, Mr. Cossey, that before mak- 
ing this definite offer you have, consulted a legal adviser ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, I have done all that, and am quite satisfied with 
the security — an advance of thirty thousand charged on all 
the Honham Castle estates at four per cent. The question 
now is if you are prepared to consent to the transfer. In 
that case all the old charges on the proper t}^ will be paid off, 
and Mr. Quest, who will act for me in the matter, will pre- 
pare a simple deed charging the property for the round 
total.” 

“ Ah, yes, the plan seems a satisfactory one, but of course 
in so important a matter I should prefer to consult my legal 
adviser before giving a final answer ; indeed, I think that it 
would be better if the whole affair were carried out in a prop- 
er and formal way.” 

“ Surely, surely, Mr. De la Molle,” said the younger man, 
wuth some irritation, for the old gentleman’s somewhat mag- 
nificent manner rather annoyed him, which, under the cir- 
cumstances, was not unnatural — “ surely you do not want to 
consult a legal adviser to make up your mind as to whether 
or no you will allow a foreclosure ? I offer you the money at 
four per cent. Cannot you let me have an answer now — yes 
or no ? ” 

“I don’t like being hurried. I can’t bear to be hurried,” 
said the Squire, pettishly. “ These important matters re- 
quire consideration, a great deal of consideration. Still,” he 
added, observing signs of increased irritation upon Edward 
Cossey’s face, and not having the slightest intention of throw- 
ing away the opportunity, though he would dearly have liked 
to prolong the negotiations for a week or two, if it was only 
to enjoy the illusory satisfaction of dabbling with such a large 
sum of money — “ still, as you are so pressing about it, I 
reall}^ speaking off-hand, can see no objection to your taking 
up the mortgages on the terms you mention.” 

“ Very well, Mr. De la Molle. Now I have on my part one 
condition, and one only, to attach to this offer of mine, that 
is, that my name is not mentioned in connection with it. I 


COLONEL qUARlTCn, V.G. 


77 


do not wisli Cossej' & Son to know that I have taken up this 
investment on my own account. In fact, so necessary to me 
is it that it should not be mentioned, that if it does transpire 
before the affair is completed, I shall withdraw my offer, and 
if it transpires afterward I shall call the money in. The 
money will be advanced by a client of Mr. Quest’s. Is that 
understood between us ?” 

“Hum ! ” said the Squire, “ I don’t quite like this secrecy 
about these important matters of business ; but still if you 
make a point of it) why, of course I cannot object.” 

“Very good. Then I presume that you will write offici- 
ally to Cossey & Son, stating that the money will be forth- 
coming to meet their various charges and the overdue inter- 
est. And now I think that we have had about enough of this 
business for once, so with your permission I will pay my 
respects to Miss He la Molle before I go.” 

“ Dear me,” said the Squire, pressing his hand to his head, 
'“you do hurry me so dreadfully, I really don’t know where 
I am. Miss De la Molle is out ; I saw her go out sketching 
myself. Sit down, and we will talk this business over a little 
more.” 

“No, thank you, Mr. De la Molle; I have to talk about 
money every day of my life, and I soon have enough of the 
subject. Quest will arrange all the details. Good-by ; don’t 
bother to ring ; I will find my horse.” And with a shake of 
the hand he was gone. 

“ Ah ! ” said the old gentleman to himself, when his visitor 
has departed ; “he asked for Ida, so I suppose that is what 
he is after. But it is a queer sort of way to begin courting, 
and if she finds it out, I should think that it would go 
against him. Ida is not the sort of woman to be won by a 
money consideration. Well, she can very well look after 
herself, that’s certain. Anyway, it has been a good morn- 
ing’s work, but somehow I don’t like that young man any the 
better for it. I have it — there’s something wanting. He is 
not quite a gentleman. Well, I must find that fellow 
George,” and he rushed to the front door and roared for 
“George,” till the whole place echoed, and the pheasants 
crowed in the woods. • 

After a while there came faint answering yells of “Com- 
ing, Squire, coming,” and in due course George’s long form 
became visible, striding swiftly up the garden. 

“Well,” said his master, who was in high good-humor, 
did you find your man ?” 

Well, no. Squire — that is, I had a rare hunt after him. 


78 


COLONEL QUAniTCH, V.G. 


and I liad just happened of him up a tree when you began to 
holloa so loud that he went nigh to falling out of it, so I had 
to tell him to come back next week, or the week after.” 

“You happened of him up a tree. Why, what the deuce 
was the man doing up a tree — measuring it?” 

“No, Squire ; I don’t rightly know what he was after, but 
he is a curious kind of a chap, and he said he had a fancy to 
wait there.” 

“ Good heavens ! no wonder the place is going to ruin 
when you deal with men who have a fancy to transact their 
business up a tree ! Well, never mind that ; I have settled 
the matter about the mortgages. Of course somebody, a 
client of Mr. Quest’s, has been found without the least diffi- 
culty to take them up at four per cent., and advance the 
other five thousand too, 'so that there need be no more anxi- 
ety about that.” 

“Well, that’s a good job, at any rate,” answered George, 
with a sigh of relief. 

“A good job? Of course it’s a good job; but it is no 
more than I expected. It wasn’t likely that such an eligible 
investment, as they say in the advertisements, would be al- 
lowed to go begging for long. But that’s just the way with 
you ; the moment there’s a hitch, you come with your long 
face, and your uneducated sort of way, and swear that we 
are all ruined, and that the country is breaking up, and that 
there’s nothing before us but the workhouse, and nobody 
knows what.” 

George reflected to himself that the Squire had forgotten 
that not an hour before he himself had been vowing that 
they were ruined, while he, George, had stoutly sworn that 
something would turn up to help them. But his back was 
accustomed to these vicarious burdens, nor, to tell the truth, 
did they go nigh to the breaking of it. 

“ Well, it’s a good job anyway, and I thank God Almighty 
for it,” said he; “and more especially since there’ll be the 
money to take over the Moat Farm, and give that warmint 
Janter the boot.” 

“Give him whatf” 

“Why, kick him .out, sir, for good and all, begging your 
pardon, sir.” 

“ Oh, I see. I do wish that you would respect the Queen’s 
English a little more, George, and the name of the Creator, 
too. By the way, the parson was speaking to me again yes- 
terday about your continued absence from church. It really 
is disgraceful ; you are a most confirmed sabbath-breaker. 


COLONEL QUARITGH, V.G. 


79 


And now you mustn’t waste my time here any longer. Go 
and look after your affairs. Stop a minute ; would you like 
a glass of port? ” 

“Well, thank you, sir,” said George, reflectively; “we 
have had a lot of talk, and I don’t mind if I do ; and as for 
that there parson, begging his pardon, I wish he would mind 
bis own affairs, and leave me to mind mine. ” 


CHAPTER Xm. 

ABOUT AKT. 

Edward Cossey drove from the castle in a far from happy 
frame of mind. To begin with, the Squire and his conde- 
scending way of doing business irritated him very much — 
so much that once or twice in the course of the conversation 
he was within an ace of breaking the whole thing off, and 
only restrained himself with difficulty from so doing. As 
it was, notwithstanding all the sacrifices and money risks 
which he was undergoing to take up these mortgages — and 
they were very considerable even to a man of his great pros- 
pects — he felt that he had been placed in the position of a 
person who receives a favor rather than of a person who 
grants one. Moreover, there was an assumption of superior- 
ity about the old man, a visible recognition of the gulf which 
used to be fixed between the gentleman of family and the 
man of business who has grown rich by trading in money and 
money’s worth, which was the more galling because it was 
founded on actual fact, and Edward Cossey knew it. All his 
foibles and oddities notwithstanding, it would have been im- 
possible for any man of discernment to entertain a compari- 
son between the half-bankrupt Squire and the young banker, 
who would shortly be worth between half a million and a mil- 
lion sterling. The former was a representative, though a 
somewhat erratic one, of all that is best in the old type of 
Englishmen of gentle blood, which is now so rapidly vanish- 
ing, and indeed of the class to which to a very large extent this 
country owes her greatness. His very eccentricities were wan- 
dering lights which showed unsuspected heights and 'depths 
in his character — love of country and his country’s honor, re- 
spect for the religion of his fathers, loyalty of mind and valor 
for the right. Hfid he lived in other times, probably, like 
some of the old Boisseys who were at Honham before him. 


80 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.G. 


lie would have died in the Crusades or at Cressy, or, per- 
haps more uselessly for his king, at Marston Moor, or like 
that last but one of the true De la Modes, kneeling in the 
court-yard of his castle and defying his enemies to wring his 
secret from him. Now no such opportunities are left to men 
of his stamp, and they are, perhaps as a consequence, dying 
out of an age which is unsuited to them, and indeed to most 
strong growths of individual character. In fact, it would be 
much easier to deal with a gentleman like the Squire of this 
history if we could only reach down one of those old suits of 
armor from the walls of his vestibule, and put it on his back, 
and take that long two-handled sword which last flashed on 
Flodden Field from its resting-place beneath the clock, and 
at the end see him die as a loyal knight should do, in the 
forefront of his retainers, with the old war-cry of “ A Dela- 
mol ! a Delamol f ” upon his lips. As it is, he is an aristocrat- 
ic anachronism, an entity unfitted to deal with the elements 
of our advanced and in some ways emasculated age. His body 
should have been where his heart was — in the past. What, 
chance have such as he against the Quests of this polite era of 
political economy and bimetalism. 

No wonder that Edward Cossey felt his inferiority to this 
symbol and type of the things that no more are, yes, even in 
the shadow of his thirty thousand pounds ! For here we have 
a different breed. Goldsmiths two centuries ago, then bank- 
ers from generation to generation, money-bees seeking for 
wealth and counting it and hiving it from decade to decade, 
till at last money became to them what honor is to the nobler 
stock — the pervading principle — and the clink of the guinea 
and the rustling of the bank-note stirred their blood as the 
clang of armed men and the sound of the flapping banner, 
with its three golden hawks flaming in the sun, was wont to 
set the hearts of the race of Boissey, of Dofferleigh, and of 
De la Molle beating to that tune to which England marched 
on to win the world. 

It is a foolish and vain thing to scoff at business and those 
who do it in the market-places, and to shout out the old war- 
cries of our fathers in the face of a generation which sings the 
song of capital, or groans in heavy labor beneath the banners 
of their copyrighted trade-marks ; and besides, who would 
buy our books (also copyrighted except in America) if we did ? 
Let us rise up and clothe ourselves, and put a tall hat upon 
our heads, and greet the new Democracy with a big D. And 
yet in the depth of our hearts and the quiet of our chambers 
(after the gas is turned down and the ladies have gone to bed) 


COLONEL QUARITCn, V.C, 


81 


let us sometimes cry to the old times aud the old men and 
the old ways of thought — let us cry “ Ave atque vale '’ — Hail 
and farewell. Our fathers’ armor hangs above the door, 
their portraits, which, whatever else they may be, we now 
know are not “art,” decorate the wall, and their fierce 
and half-tamed hearts moulder beneath the stones of yonder 
church. Hail and farewell to you our fathers ! Perchance a 
man might have had worse company than he met with at your 
boards, and even have found it not more hard to die beneath 
your sword-cuts, fighting for some cause which to you at any 
rate appeared to be good and grand, than to be gently coz- 
ened to the grave by duly qualified practitioners at two 
guineas a visit. 

And the upshot of all this is that the Squire was not al- 
together wrong when he declared, in the silence of his cham- 
ber, that Edward Cossey was not quite a gentleman. He 
showed it when he allowed himself to be guided by the arts 
of Mr. Quest into the adoption of the idea of obtaining a lien 
upon Ida, to be enforced if convenient. He showed it again 
— and what is more, he committed a huge mistake — when, 
tempted thereto by the opportunity of the moment, he made 
a conditional bargain with the said Ida, whereby she was 
placed in pledge for the sum of thirty thousand pounds, well 
knowing that her honor would be equal to the test, and that 
if convenient to him she would be ready to pay the debt. I 
say he made a huge mistake, for had he been quite a gentle- 
man he would have known that he could not have adopted a 
worse road to the affections of a lady. Had he been content 
to advance the money, and then by and by — though even 
that would not have been gentleman-like — have gently let it 
transpire that what he had done had been at great personal 
expense and inconvenience, her imagination might have been 
touched, and her gratitude would surely have been excited. 
But the idea of bargaining, the idea of purchase, which after 
what had passed could never be put aside, would of necessity 
be fatal to any hope of tender feeling. Shylock might get his 
bond, but of his own act he had debarred himself from the 
possibility of ever getting more. 

Now Edward Cossey was not lacking in that after-glow of 
refinement which is left behind by a course of public- school 
and university education. No education can make a gentle- 
man of a man who is not a gentleman at heart, for whether 
his station in life be that of a ploughboy or an earl, the 
gentleman, like the poet, is born and not made. But it can 
and does, if he be of an observant nature, give him a certain 
C 


82 


COLONEL qUARITCII, V.O. 


insight into the habits of thought and probable course of 
action of the members of that class to which he outwardly, 
and by repute, belongs. Such an insight Edward Cossey 
possessed, and at the present moment its possession was 
troubling him very much. His trading instincts, the desire 
bred in him to get something for his money, had led him to 
make the bargain ; but now that it was done, his better judg- 
ment rose up against it. For the truth may as w^ell be told 
at once, although he would as yet scarcely acknowledge it to 
himself, Edward Cossey was already violently enamored of 
Ida. He was by nature a passionate man, and as it chanced, 
she had proved the magnet with power to draw his passion. 
But, as the reader is aware, there existed another compli- 
cation in his life, for which he was not perhaps entirely re- 
sponsible. When still quite a youth in mind, he had suddenly 
found himself the object of the love of a beautiful and en- 
thralling woman, and he had, after a more or less severe 
struggle, yielded to the temptation, as, out of a book, many 
young men would have done. Now to be the object of the 
violent affection of such a woman as Belle Quest is no doubt 
very flattering, and even charming for a while. But if that 
affection is not returned in kind, if in short the gentleman 
does not love the lady quite as warmly as she loves him, then 
in course of time the charm is apt to vanish, and even the 
flattery to cease to please. Also, when as in the present case 
the connection is wrong . in itself and universally condemned 
by society, the affection which can still triumph and endure 
on both sides must be of a very strong and lasting order. 
Even an unprincipled man dislikes the acting of one long lie 
such as an intimacy of the sort necessarily involves, and if the 
man happens to be rather weak than unprincipled, the dislike 
is apt to turn to loathing, some portion of which will cer- 
tainly in time be reflected on to the partner of his ill-doing. 

These are general principles, but the case of Edward Cos- 
sey offered no exception to them ; indeed, it illustrated them 
very well. He had never been in love with Mrs. Quest, to 
begin with ; she had showed herself too much in love with 
him to necessitate any display of emotion on his part. Her 
violent and unreasoning passion wearied and alarmed him ; 
he never knew what she would do next, and was kept in a 
continual condition of anxiety and irritation as to what the- 
morrow might bring forth. Too sure of her unaltering at- 
tachment to have any pretext for jealousy, he found it exceed- 
ingly irksome to be obliged to avoid giving cause for it on 
his side, which, however, he dreaded doing lest he should 


COLONEL qUARlTGH, V.G. 


83 


thereby bring about some overwhelming catastrophe. Mrs. 
Quest was, as he well knew, not a woman who would pause 
to consider consequences if once her passionate jealousy was 
really aroused. It was even doubtful if the certainty of 
her own ruin could check her. Her love was everything to 
her ; it was her life, the thing she lived for ; and rather than 
tamely lose it, it seemed extremely probable to Edward Cos- 
sey that she would not hesitate to face shame, or even death. 
Indeed, it was by means of this great passion of hers, and 
by its means only, that he could hope to influence her. 
If he could persuade her to release him by pointing out 
that a continuance of the intrigue must involve him in ruin of 
some sort, all might yet go well with him. If not, his future 
was a dark one. 

This was the state of affairs before he became attached to 
Ida De la Molle, after which the horizon became blacker than 
ever. At first he tried to get out of the difficulty by avoiding 
Ida, but it did not answer. She exercised an irresistible at- 
traction over him. Her calm and stately presence was to him 
what the sight of mountain snows are to one scorched by 
continual heat. He was weary of passionate outbursts, tears, 
agonies, alarms, presentiments, and all the paraphernalia of 
secret love. It appeared to him, looking up at the beautiful 
snow, that if once he could reach it, life would be all sweet- 
ness and light — ^that there would be no more thirst, no more 
fear, and no more forced marches through those ill-odored 
quagmires of deceit. The more he allowed his imagination 
to dwell upon the picture, the fiercer grew his longing to 
possess it. Also, he knew well enough that to marry a wo- 
man like Ida De la Molle would be the greatest blessing that 
could happen to him, for she would of necessity lift him up 
above himself. She had no money, it was true ; but that was 
a very minor matter to him ; but she had birth, and breeding 
and beauty, and that presence which commands homage. And 
so it came to pass that he fell deeply and yet more deeply in 
love with Ida, and that as he did so his connection with Mrs. 
<^uest (although we have seen him but yesterday offering, in 
a passing fit of tenderness and rejnorse, to run away with her) 
became more and more irksome to him. And now, as he 
drove leisurely back lo Boisingham, he felt that he^ had im- 
perilled all his hopes by a rash indulgence in his trading- 
instincts. 

Presently the road he was following took a turn, and re- 
vealed a sight that did not tend to improve his already irrit- 
able mood, Just here the roadway was bordered by a deep 


84 


COLONEL qUABlTCH, V.G. 


bank covered with trees, which sloped down to the valley of 
the Ell, at this time of the year looking its loveliest in the 
soft autumn lights. And here, seated on a slope of turf be- 
neath the shadow of a yellowing chestnut-tree, in such a posi- 
tion as to get a view of the green valley and flashing river, 
where cattle, red and white, stood chewing the still luxuriant 
aftermath, was none other than Ida herself, and, what was 
more, Ida accompanied by Colonel Quaritch. They were 
seated on camp-stools, and in front of each of them was an 
easel. Clearly they were painting together ; for, even as 
Edward gazed, the colonel rose, came up close behind his 
companion’s stool, made a ring Of his thumb and first finger, 
gazed critically through it at the lady’s performance, and then 
sadly shook his head and made some remarks, whereupon Ida 
turned round and commenced an animated discussion. 

“ Hang me,” said Edward to himself, “if she has not taken 
up with that confounded old military frump ! Painting to- 
gether ! Ah, I know what that means ! Well, I should have 
thought that if there was one man more tlian another whom 
she would have disliked, it would have been that battered- 
looking colonel. He pulled up his horse and reflected for a 
moment, then handed the reins to his servant, jumped out, 
and climbing through a gap in the fence, walked up to the 
tree where the pair were sitting. So engrossed were they in 
their argument that they neither saw nor heard him. 

“It’s nonsense. Colonel Quaritch, perfect nonsense, if you 
will forgive me for saying so,” Ida was saying with warmth. 
“It is all very well for you to complain that my trees are a 
blur, and the castle nothing but a splotch ; but I am looking 
at the water, and if I am looking at the water, it is quite im- 
possible that I should see the trees and the cows otherwise 
than I have rendered them on the canvas. True art is to paint 
what the painter sees and as he sees it.” 

Colonel Quaritch shook his head and sighed. 

“ The cant of the impressionist school,” he said, sadly ; “on 
the contrary, the business of the artist is to paint what he 
knows to be there,” and he gazed complacently at his own 
canvas, which had the appearance of a spirited drawing of a 
fortified place, or of the contents of a child’s Noah’s ark, so 
stiff, so solid, so formidable were its outlines, trees and animals. 

Ida shrugged her shoulders, laughed merrily, and turned 
round to find herself face to face with Edward Cossey. She 
started back, and her face hardened ; then she stretched out 
her hand and said, “ How do you do ? ” in her very coldest 
tones. 


COLON FA. QV AULT an, WO. 


as 

*‘How do you do, Miss De la Molle? ” he said, assuming as 
linconcerned an air as he could, and bowing stiffly to Harold 
Quaritch, who returned the bow and went back to his canvas, 
which was placed a few paces off. 

“ I saw you painting,” went on Edward Cossey, in a low 
tone, “so I thought I would come and tell you that I have 
settled that matter with Mr. De la Molle.” 

“ Gh, indeed ! ” answered Ida, hitting viciously at a wasp 
with her paint brush. “ Well, I hope that you will find the 
investment a satisfactory one. And now, if you please, do 
not let us talk any more about money, because I am quite 
tired of the subject.” Then raising her voice she went on, 
“ Come here. Colonel Quaritch, and Mr. Cossey shall judge 
between us,” and she pointed to her picture. 

Edward glanced at the Colonel wfith no amiable air. “ I 
know nothing about art,” he said, “and I am afraid I must be 
getting on. Good-morning ; ” and taking off his hat to Ida, 
he turned and went. 

“Umph ! ” said the Colonel, looking after him with a quiz- 
zical expression, “that gentleman seems rather short in his 
temper. Wants knocking about the world a bit, I should say. 
But I beg your pardon ; I suppose that he is a friend of 
yours. Miss De la Molle ? ” 

“ He is an acquaintance of mine,” answered Ida, with 
emphasis. 


CHAPTEK XIV. 

THE TIGER SHOWS HER CLAWS. 

After this very chilling reception at the hands of the object 
of his affection, Edward Cossey, as may be imagined, contin- 
ued his drive in an even worse temper than before. He 
reached his rooms, had some luncheon, and then, in pursuance 
of a previous engagement, went over to the Oaks to see Mrs. • 
Quest. 

He found her waiting for him in the drawing-room. She 
was standing at the window with her hands behind her, a 
favorite attitude of hers. As soon as the door was shut she 
turned, came up to him, and grasped his hand affectionately 
between her own. ^ ' 

“ It is an age since I have seen you, Edward,” she said, 

“ one whole day. Keally, when I do not see you I do not 
live, I only exist.” 


8C 


COLONEL QUARITGB, V.O. 

He freed himself from her clasp with a quick^ movetiient. 
“Keally, Belle,” he said, impatiently, “you might be a little 
more careful than to go through that sort of performance in 
front of an open window, especially as the gardener must have 
seen the whole thing.” 

“I don’t care much if he did,” she said, defiantly. What 
does it matter? My husband is certainly not in a position to 
make a fuss about other people.” 

“ What does it matter ? ” he said, stamping his foot. “ What 
does it not matter ? If you have no care for your good name, 
do you suppose that I am indifferent to mine ? ” 

Mrs. Quest opened her large violet eyes to the fullest ex- 
tent, and a curious light was reflected from them. 

“You have grown wonderfully careful all of a sudden, 
Edward,” she said, meaningly. 

“ What is the use of being careful when you are so reck- 
less. I tell you what it is, Belle, we are talked of all over 
this gossiping town, and I don’t like it, and what is more, 
once and for all, I won’t have it. If you will not be more 
careful, I will break with you altogether, and that is the long 
and short of it.” 

“ Where have you been this morning ? ” she asked, in the 
same ominously calm voice. 

“ I have been to Honham Castle, on a matter of business.” 

“ Oh, and yesterday you were there on a matter of pleas- 
ure. Now, did you happen to see Ida in the coui-se of your 
business ? ” 

“Yes,” he answered, looking her full in the face, “I did 
see her ; what about it ? ” 

“By appointment, I suppose.” 

“No, not by appointment. Have you done your cate- 
chism ? ” 

“ Yes — and now I am going to preach a homily on it. I 
see through you perfectly, Edward. You are getting tired 
of me, and you want to be rid of me. I tell you plainly that 
you are not going the right way to work about it. No woman, 
especially if she be in my unfortunate position, can tamely 
bear to se^ herself discarded for another. Certainly I cannot, 
and I caution you, I caution you to be careful, because when I 
think of such a thing I am not quite myself ; ” and suddenly, 
and without the slightest warning (for her face had been hard 
and cold as stone), she burst into a flood of tears. 

Now, Edward Cossey being but a man, was somewhat 
broken down at this sight. Of course he did his best to con- 
sole her, though with no great results, for she was sobbing 


COLONEL QUAHITGU, V.C. 


87 


bitterly .-when suddenly there came a knock at the door. 
Mrs. Quest burned her face toward the wall and pretended to 
be reading'a letter, and he tried to look as unconcerned as 
possible. 

“A telegram for you, sir,” said the girl, with a sharp 
glance at her mistress. “ The telegraph boy brought it on 
here, when he found you were not at home, because he said 
he would be sure to find you here ; and please, sir, he hopes 
that you will give him sixpence for bringing it round, as he 
thought it might be important.” 

Edward felt in his pocket, and gave the girl a shilling, tell- 
ing her to say that there was no answer. As soon a^ she was 
gone he opened, the telegram and started. It was from his 
sister in London, and ran as follows : 

“ Come up to town at once. Father has had a stroke of 
paralysis. Shall expect you by the seven-o’clock train.” 

“What is it?” said Mrs. Quest, noting the alarm on his 
face. 

“ Why, my father is very ill. He has had a stroke of pa- 
ralysis, and I must go to town by the next train.” 

“Shall you be long away?” 

“ I do not know. How can I tell ? Good-by, BeUe. I am 
sorry that we should have had this scene just as I am going, 
but I can’t help it.” 

“ Oh, Edward,” she said, catching him by the arm and 
turning her tear-stained face up toward his own. “You are 
not angry with me, are you? Do not let us part in anger. 
How can I help being jealous when I love you so ? ,Tell me 
that you do not hate me, or I shall be wretched all the time 
that you are away.” 

“ No, no, of course not ; but I must say that I wish that 
you would not make such shocking scenes. Good-by.” 

“ Good-by,” she answered as she gave him her shaking 
hands. “Good-by, my dear. If only you knew what I feel 
here” — she pointed to her breast — “you would make excuses 
for me.” Almost before she had finished her sentence he was 
gone. She stood near the door, listening to his retreating 
footsteps till they had quite died away, and then flung her- 
self in the chair and rested her head upon her hands. “I 
shall lose him,” she said to herself, in the bitterness of her 
heart ; “ I know I shall. What chance have I against her ? He 
already cares for Ida a great deal more than he does for me. 
In the end he will break from me and marry her sometime. 
Oh, I had rather see him dead — and myself too ! ” 

Half an hour later Mr. Quest came in. 


88 


COLONEL QUAUITCB, V.C. 


“Where is Cossey?” he asked. 

“Mr. Cossey’s father has had a stroke of paralysis, and he 
has gone up to London to look after him.” 

“ Oh ! ” s"aid Mr. Quest. “ Well, if the old gentleman dies^ 
your friend will be one of the wealthiest men in England.” 

“ Well, so much the better for him. I am sure money is a 
great blessing. It protects one from so much.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Quest, with emphasis, “ so much the bet- 
ter for him and all connected with him. Why have you been 
crying ? Because Cossey has gone away — or have you quar- 
relled with him ? ” 

“ How do you know that I have been crying ? If I have, 
it’s my affair. At any rate, my tears are my own.” 

“ Certainly they are ; I do not wish to interfere with your 
crying ; cry when you like. It will be lucky for Cossey if 
that old father of his dies just now, because he wants money.” 

“What does he want money for ? ” 

“ Because he has undertaken to pay off the mortgages on 
the Castle estates.” 

“ Why has he done that — as an investment ! ” 

“ No ; it is a rotten investment. I believe that he has done 
it because he is in love with Miss De la Molle, and is natu- 
rally anxious to ingratiate himself with her. Don’t you know 
that ? I thought perhaps that was what you had been crying 
about.” 

“ It is not true,” she answered, her lips quivering with pain. 

Mr. Quest laughed gently. “ I think you must have lost 
your power of observation, which used to be sufficiently keen. 
However, of course it does not matter to you. It wdll in 
many w’ays be a most suitable marriage, and I am sure they 
will make a very handsome couple.” 

She made no answer, and turned her back to hide the 
workings of her face. For a few moments her husband stood 
looking' at her, with a gentle smile playing On his refined 
features. Then remarking that he must go round to the of- 
fice, but w^ould be back in time for tea, he went, reflecting 
with satisfaction that he had given his wife something to think 
about which would be scarcely to her taste. 

As for Belle Quest, she waited till the door had closed, and 
then turned around toward it and spoke aloud, as though she 
were addressing her vanished husband. 

“ I hate you ! ” she said with bitter emphasis — “I hate you ! 
You have ruined my life, and now you torment me as though 
I were a lost soul. Oh, I wish I were dead ! I wish I w^ere 
dead ! ” 


COLONEL qUARITCU, V.G. 


89 


On reaching his office Mr. Quest found two letters for him, 
one of which had just arrived by 'the afternoon post. The 
first was addressed in the Squire’s handwriting and signed 
with his big seal, and the other bore a superscription the 
sight of which made him turn momentarily faint. Taking up 
this last with a visible effort, he opened it. It ran as follows : 

“Dear Bill — No answer this morning. I hope you ain’t 
U2^ to any of your tricks about the tin, because I won’t stand 
it, and that’s all. I told you that I had dropped all my oof — 
not that I had much out of you this year, only five hundred 
and a beggarly £20 on my birthday and what I make at the 
Birmingham — four pound ten a week, and hard work for 
that. I’m cleaned out, and that’s all about it. Only just now 
a brute of a fellow came in with a summons for rates, and I 
told him that my friend, that means you. Bill dear, was going 
to come down handsome in a day or two. He would not 
believe it — just as though he knew what a mean lot you were 
—so I told him to bundle out double-quick or I’d heave the 
coal-shoot at his head — and he went, you bet ; but he’ll be 
back before long with the summons. I say the coal-shoot, 
for there ain’t no coals in it, and I can’t afford any money to 
get a bit of fire to warm my bones with. Then there’s the 
landlord says he’ll distrain for the rent unless it’s paid up in 
double-quick time. And so the long and short of it is, that 
if I don’t get about five hundred quid out of you in the 
course of next week. I’ll know the reason why. And I’ll just 
be plain with you. Bill, my old boy. If I don’t see the color 
of that money by this day week, why, I tell you what I am 
going to do. I’m going to take a little country air, my com- 
plexion wants it, and I think Boisingham would suit first 
rate. In fact I shall come down and pay you a visit, old boy, 
so perhp,ps you’ll ask the lovely Mrs. Quest to get a room 
ready for me ; and when I get down there, if I don’t tell all 
the old respectables a thing or two about their beloved 
lawyer, and generally make them sit up and see stars, why, I 
ain’t I. And now there’s the straight tip for you from your 
affectionate ‘Tiger.’ But remember she’d always rather purr 
than growl. It’s onl}^ when the cash don’t come down that 
her back goes up. All a question of money, my boy, like 
everything else in this wicked world. 

“Your beloved Edith.” 

By the time that Mr. Quest had finished reading this pre- 
cious effusion the cold sweat was standing in beads on his 
forehead. 


90 


COLOjSEL qUABITClI, v.c. 


“ Great Heavens ! ” he said, “this woman will destroy me. 
What a devil ! And she’d- be as good as her word unless I 
found her the money. I must go up to town at once. I 
wonder how she got that idea into her head ? It makes me 
shudder to think of such a thing,” and he dropped his face 
upon his hands and groaned in the bitterness of his heart. 

“It is hard,” he thought to himself; “here I have for years 
and years been striving and toiling and laboring to become a 
respectable and respected member of society, and always this 
old folly haunts my steps and drags me down, and, by Hea- 
ven ! I believe that it will destroy me after all.” With a sigh 
he lifted his head, and taking a sheet of paper wrote on it, 
“I have received your letter, and will come and see you to- 
morrow or the next day.” This letter he placed in an enve- 
lope, which he directed to the high-sounding name of Mrs. 
D’Aubigne, Stanley Street, Pimlico, and put it in his pocket. 

Then with another sigh he took up the Squire’s letter, and 
glanced through it. Its length was considerable, but in sub- 
stance it announced his acceptance of the arrangement pro- 
posed by Mr. Edward Cossey, and requested that he would 
prepare the necessary deeds to be submitted to his lawyers. 
Mr. Quest read the letter absently enough, and threw it down 
with a little laugh. 

“What a queer world it is,” he said to himself, “and what 
a ludicrous side it has to it all ! Here is Cossey advancing 
money to get a hold over Ida De la Molle, whom he means 
to marry if he can, and who is probably playing her own 
hand. Here is Belle madly in love with Cossey, who will 
break her heart. Here am I in love with Belle, who hates 
me, and playing everybody’s game in order to advance my 
own, and become a venerated member of a society I am 
superior to. Here is the Squire blundering about like a 
walrus in a horse-pond, and fancying everything is being con- 
ducted for his sole advantage, and that all the world revolves 
round Honham Castle. And then here at the end of the 
chain is this female harpy, Edith Jones, otherwise D’Aubigne, 
alias the Tiger, gnawing at my vitals and holding my fortunes 
in her hand. 

“Bah! it is a queer world, and full of combinations, but 
the worst of it is that, plot as we will, the solution of them 
does not rest with us — no, not with us.” 


(JOLONEL qUABlTOH, V.C. 


91 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE HAPPY DAYS. 

This is a troublesome world enough, but thanks to that 
mitigating fate which now and again interferes to our advan- 
tage, there do come to most of us times and peripds of our 
existence which, if they do not quite fulfil all the conditions 
of our ideal happiness, yet go near enough to that end to 
permit in after-days of our imagining that they did so. I say 
to most of us, but in doing so I allude chiefly to those classes 
commonly known as the “ upper,” by which is understood 
those who have enough bread to put into their mouths and 
clothes ^o warm them ; those, too, who are not the present 
subjects of remorseless and hideous ailments, who are not 
daily agonized by the sight of their famished offspring ; who 
are not doomed to beat out their lives against the mad-house 
bars, or to see their hearts’ beloved and their most cherished 
hope wither toward that cold space from whence no message 
comes. For such unfortunates, and for their million-num- 
bered kin upon the globe — the victims of war, famine, slave- 
trade, oppression, usury, over-population, and the curse of 
competition — the rays of light must be few indeed ; few and 
far between, only just enough to save them from utter hope- 
lessness. And even to the favored ones, the well- warmed and 
well-fed, who are to a great extent lifted by fortune or by 
their native strength and wit above the degradations of the 
world, this light of happiness is but as the gleam of stars, 
uncertain, fitful, and continually lost in clouds. Only the 
utterly selfish, or the utterly ignorant can be happy with the 
happiness of savages or children, however prosperous their 
own affairs, for to the rest, those who think and have hearts 
to feel, and imagination to realize, and a redeeming human 
sympathy to be touched, the mere weight of the world’s mis- 
ery pressing round them like an atmosphere, the mere echoes 
of the groans of the dying and the cries of the children, are 
sufficient, and more than sufficient, to dull, aye, to destroy 
the promise of their joj^s. But still, even to this finer sort 
there do come rare periods of almost complete happiness — 
little summers in the tempestuous climate of our years, green- 
fringed wells of water in our desert, pure Northern lights 
breaking in upon our gloom. And strange as it may' seem, 
these breadths of happy days, when the old questions cease to 


02 


COLONEL QUAIUTCH, V,C. 


torment, and a man can trust in Providence, and without one 
qualifying thought bless the day that he was born; are very 
frequently connected with the passion that is known as love ; 
that mysterious symbol of our double nature, that strange 
tree of life which, with its roots sucking their strength from 
the dust-heap of humanity, yet springs aloft above our high- 
est level, and bears its blooms in the very face of heaven. 

Why it is and what it means we shall never know for cer- 
tain, but it, does suggest itself that as the greatest terror of 
our being lies in the utter loneliness, the unspeakable iden- 
tity, and unchanging self-completeness of every living soul, 
so the greatest hope and the intensest natural yearning of 
our hearts go out toward that passion which in its fire heats 
has the strength, if only for a little while, to melt down the 
barriers of our individuality, and to give to the soul some- 
thing of the power for which it yearns, of losing its sense of 
solitude in converse with its kind. For alone we are from in- 
fancy to death. We, for the most part, grow not nearer to- 
gether, but rather wider apart, with the widening years. 
Where go the sympathies between the parent and the child ? 
and where is the close old love of brother for his brother ? 

The invisible fates are continually wrapping us round and 
round with the winding-sheets of our solitude, and none may 
know all our heart save He who made it. We are set upon 
the world as the stars are set upon the sky, and though in 
following our fated orbits we pass and repass, and each shines 
out on each, yet are we the same lonely lights, rolling alone, 
obedient to laws we cannot understand, through those great 
spaces of which none may mark the limit. 

Only, as says the poet, in words of truth and beauty — 

‘ ‘ Only but this is rare ; 

When a beloved hand is laid in ours ; 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 
Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear. 

When our world- deafened ear 

Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed — 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, 

And a lost piilse of feeling stirs again ; 

And what we mean we say, and what we would we know. 

And then ho thinks he knows 
The hills were his life rose, 

And the sea whereunto it goes.” 

Some such Indian summer of delight and forgetfulness of 
trouble and the tragic conditions of our days was now opening 


COLONEL qUAUrrcii, v.a. 


93 


to Harold Quaritcli and Ida Be la Molle. Every day, or al- 
most every da}", they met and went upon their painting expe- 
ditions, and -argued the point of the validity or otherwise of 
the Impressionist doctrines of art. Not that of all this paint- 
ing came anything very wonderful, although in the evening 
the Colonel, in the silence of his chamber, would take out his 
canvases and contemplate their rigid proportions with singular 
pride and satisfaction. It was a little weakness of his to think 
that he could paint, and one of which he was somewhat tena- 
cious. He was like many another, a man who could do a 
number of things exceedingly well, and one thing very badty, 
and yet have more faith in that one bad thing than in all the 
good. 

And still, strange to say, although he affected to believe so 
firmly in his own style of art and hold Ida’s in such cheap re- 
gard, it was a little painting of the latter’s that was most dear 
to him, and which was most often put upon his easel for pur- 
poses of solitary admiration. It was one of those very Im- 
pressionist productions that faded away in the distance, and 
was full of soft gray tints, such as his soul loathed, and had 
a tree with a blot of brown color on it, and altogether 
(though, as a matter of fact, a clever thing enough), from his 
point of view of art, utterly ‘‘ anathema.” This little picture 
in oils faintly shadowed out himself sitting at his easel, work- 
ing in the soft gray of the autumn evening, and Ida had 
painted it and given it to him, and that was why he admired 
it so much. For, to speak the truth, our friend the Colonel 
was going, going fast — sinking out of sight of his former self 
into the depths of the love that possessed his soul. 

He was a very simple-minded and a pure man. Strange as 
it may appear, since, that first unhappy business of his youth, 
of which he had never been heard to speak, no living woman 
had been anything to him. Therefore, instead of becoming 
further vulgarized and hardened by association with all the 
odds and ends of womankind that a man travelling about the 
globe comes in contact with, generally not greatly to his im- 
jorovement, his faith had had time to grow up stronger even 
than before, and he once more looked upon woman as a 
young man looks before he has had experience of the world, 
as a being to be venerated and almost worshipped, as some- 
thing better, brighter, purer, than himself, hardly to be won, 
and when won to be worn like a jewel prized at once for val- 
ue and for beauty. 

Now this is a dangerous state of mind for a man of three 
or four and forty to fall into, because it is a soft state, and 


94 


COLONEL qUARlTCII, V.O. 


this is a world in which the softest are apt to get the worst 
of it, and at foiir-and-forty a man, of course, should be hard 
enough to get the better of other people, as indeed he gener- 
ally is. 

When Harold Quaritch, after all that long interval of years, 
first set eyes again upon Ida’s face, he felt a curious change 
come over him. All the vague ideas and more or less poetical 
aspirations which for five long years had gathered themselves 
round about that memory took shape and form, and though 
as yet he would not quite confess it, in his heart he knew 
that he loved her. And as the days went on and he came to 
know her better, he grew to love her more and more, till at 
last his whole heart went out toward his late-found treasure, 
and she grew to be more than life to him, more than aught 
had been or could be. Blue and happy were those days 
which they spent in painting and talking as they wandered 
about the Honham Castle grounds. By degrees Ida’s slight 
but perceptible hardness of manner wore away, and she stood 
out what she was, one of the sweetest and most natural wo- 
men in England, and with it all, a woman having brains and 
force of character. 

Soon he discovered that her life had been anything but an 
easy one. The constant anxiety about money and her father’s 
affairs had worn her down and hardened her, tiU, as she said, 
she began to feel as though she had no heart left. Then, 
too, he heard all her trouble about her dead and only brother 
James, how dearly she had loved him, and what a sore trouble 
he had been with his extravagant ways, and his continual de- 
mands for money, which had to be met some how or other. 
At last came the crushing blow of his death, and with it the 
certainty of the extinction of the male line of the De la 
Molles, and she said that for a while she had believed her fa- 
ther would never hold up his head again. But his vitality 
was equal to the shock ; and after a while the debts began to 
come in, which, although he was not legally bound to do so, 
her father would insist upon meeting to the last farthing, for 
the honor of the family and out of respect for his son’s mem- 
ory ; and there was more trouble about money, that had gone 
on and on, always getting worse as the agricultural depres- 
sion deepened, till things had reached their present position. 
All this she told him bit by bit, keeping back from him only 
the last development of the drama and the part that Edward 
Cossey had played in it ; and sad enough it made him to 
think of that ancient house of De la Molle vanishing into the 
night of ruin. 


COLONEL qtlAmTGIi, v.c. 


95 


Also siie told him something of her own life, how compan- 
ionless it had been since her brother went into the army, for 
she had no real friends about Honham, and not even an ac- 
quaintance of her own tastes, which, without being gushingly 
so, were decidedly artistic and intellectual. “ I should have 
liked,” she said, “to have tried to do something in the world. 
I dare say that I should have failed, for I know that- very few 
women meet with a success that is worth having. But still I 
should have liked to try, for I am not afraid of work. But 
the current of my life is against it, and the only thing that is 
open to me is to try and make both ends meet upon an in- 
come that is always growing smaller, and to save my father, 
poor old dear, from as much worry as I can. 

“ Don’t think that I am complaining,” she went on, hur- 
riedly, “ or that I want to rush into pleasure- seeking, because I 
don’t — a little of that goes a long way with me. Besides, I 
know that I have many things to be thankful for. Few 
women have such a kind father as I have, though we do 
quarrel at times, and of course we cannot have everything our 
own way in this world, and I dare say that I do not mako the 
best of things. Still, at times, it does seem a little hard to 
have to lead such a narrow life, just when I feel that I could 
work in a wide one.” 

Harold looked up in her face and saw that a tear was gath- 
ering in her dark eyes, and in his heart he registered a vow 
that if by any means it ever lay within his power to improve 
her lot he would give everything he had to do it. But all he 
said was : 

“ Don’t be downhearted. Miss De la MoUe. Things change 
in a wonderful way, and often they mend when they look 
worst. Aou know,” he went on a little nervously, “I am 
an old-fashioned sort of individual, and I believe in Provi- 
dence and all that sort of thing, you see, and that things gen- 
erally come pretty straight in the long run if people deserve 
it.” 

Ida shook her head a little doubtfully and sighed. 

“ Perhaps,” she said ; “ but I suppose that we do not de- 
serve it. Anyhow, our good fortune is a long while coming,” 
and the conversation dropped. 

Still her friend’s strong belief in the efficacy of Providence, 
and, generally, his masculine sturdiness, did cheer her up 
considerably. Even the strongest women, if they have any 
element that can be called feminine left in them, want some- 
body of the other sex to lean on, and Ida was no exception 
to the rule. Besides, if Ida’s society had charms for Colonel 


COLONEL QlTArdTCn, V.C. 


OC) 

Quaritch, his society had almost if not quite as much charm 
for her. It may be remembered that on the night that they 
first met she had spoken to herself of him as the kind of man 
whom she would like to marry. The thought was a passing- 
one, and it may be safely said that she had not since enter- 
tained smj serious idea of marriage in connection with 
Colonel Quaritch. The only person whom there seemed the 
slightest probability of her manying was Edward Cossey, 
and there mere thought of this was enough to make the 
whole idea of matrimony repugnant to her. 

But this notwithstanding, day by day she found Harold 
Quaritch’s society more congenial. Herself by nature, and 
also to a certain degree by education, a cultured woman, she 
rejoiced to find in him an entirely kindred spirit. For be- 
neath his somewhat rugged and un];)romising appearance 
Harold Quaritch hid a nature of considerable richness. Few 
of those who associated with him would have believed that 
the man had a side to his nature which was almost poetic, or 
that he was a ripe and finished scholar, and, what is more, 
not devoid of a certain dry humor. Then he had travelled 
far and seen much of men and manners, gathering up all 
sorts of quaint odds and ends of information. But perhaps 
above these accomplishments it was the man’s transparent 
honesty and simple-mindedness, his love for what was true 
and noble, and his contempt and scorn for what was mean 
and base, which, unwittingly peeping out through his conver- 
sation, attracted her more than all the rest. Ida was no 
more a young girl to be caught by a handsome face or daz- 
zled by a superficial show of mind. She was a thoughtful, 
ripened woman, quick to perceive, and with the rare talent 
of judgment wherewith to weigh the proceeds of her percep- 
tion, and in plain, middle-aged Colonel Quaritch she found a 
very perfect gentleman, and valued him accordingly. 

And so day grew into day in that lovely autumn-tide, and 
Edward Cossey was away in London, and Quest had ceased 
from troubling, and journeying together through the sweet 
shadows of companionship, by slow but sure degrees they 
drew near to the sunlit plain of love. For it is not common 
— indeed, it is so uncommon as to draw near to the impossible 
— that a man and woman between whom there stands no 
natural impediment can halt for very long in those shadowed 
ways — there is throughout all nature an impulse that pushes 
ever onward toward completion, and from completion to 
fruition. Liking leads to sympathy, and sympathy points 
the path to love, and then love demands its own. This is the 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. . 97 

order of affairs, and down its well-trodden road these two 
were quickly travelling. ■ 

George the wily saw it, and winked his eye with solemn 
meaning. The Squire also saw something of it, not being 
wanting in knowledge of the world, and after much cogitation 
and many long walks he elected to leave matters alone for the 
present. He liked Colonel Quaritch, and he thought it 
would be a good thing for Ida to get married, though the 
idea of parting from her troubled his heart sorely.- Whether 
or no it would be desirable from his point of view that she 
should marry the Colonel 'was a point on w^hich he had not, 
at any rate as yet, fully made up his mind. Sometimes he 
thought it would, and sometimes the reverse. Then at times 
vague ideas suggested by Edward Cossey’s behavior about 
the loan would come to puzzle him. But as yet he was so 
much in the dark that he could come to no absolute decision, 
so, with unaccustomed wisdom for so headstrong and precipi- 
tate a man, he determined to refrain from interference, and 
for the present at any rate to let events take their natural 
course. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE HOUSE WITH THE RED PILLARS. 

Two days after his receipt of the second letter from the 
“ Tiger,” Mr. Quest announced to his wife that he was going 
to London on business connected with the bank, and expected 
to be away for a couple of nights. 

She laughed straight out. “Really, William,” she said, 
“ you are a most consummate actor. I wonder chat you think 
it worth while to keep up the farce with me. Well, I hope 
that Edith is not going to be very expensive this time, because 
we don’t seem to be too rich just now, and you see there is 
no more of my money for her to have.” 

Mr. Quest winced visibly beneath this bitter satire, which 
his wife uttered with a smile of infantile innocence playing 
upon her face, but he made no reply. She knew too much. 
Only in his heart he wondered what fate she would mete out 
to him if ever slie got possession of the whole truth, and the 
thought made him tremble. It seemed to him that the owner 
of that baby face could be terribly merciless in her vengeance, 
and that those soft white hands would close round the throat 
of a man she hated and utterly destroy him. Now, if never 
7 


98 


COLONEL qUAlUTGH, V.C. 


before, he realized that between him and this woman there 
* must be enmity and a struggle to the death ; and yet, strange- 
ly enough, he still loved her ! 

Mr. Quest reached London about three o’clock, and his first 
act was to drive to Cossey & Son’s, where he was informed 
that old Mr. Cossey was much better, and having heard that 
he was coming to town, had sent to say that he particularly 
wished to see him, especially about the Honham Castle estates. 
Accordingly Mr. Quest drove on to the old gentleman’s man- 
sion in Grosvenor Street, where he asked for Mr. Edward 
Cossey. The footman said that Mr. Edward was upstairs, and 
showed him into a study wliile he went to tell him of the 
arrival of his visitor. Mr. Quest glanced round the luxuriantly 
furnished room, which he saw was occupied by Edward him- 
self, for some letters directed in his handwriting lay upon 
the desk, and a velveteen lounging-coat that Mr. Quest recog- 
nized as belonging to him was hanging over the back of a 
chair. Mr. Quest’s eye, wandering over this coat, was presently 
caught by the corner of a torn flap of an envelop which pro- 
jected from one of the pockets. It was of a peculiar bluish 
tinge, in fact of a hue which was much affected by his wife. 
Listening for a moment to hear if anybody was coming, he 
stepped to the coat and extracted the letter. It was in his 
wife’s handwriting, so he took the liberty of hastily transfer- 
ring it to his own pocket. In another minute Edward Cossey 
entered, and the two men shook hands. 

“How do you do. Quest?” said Edward. “I think that 
the old man is going to pull through this bout. He is help- 
less, but keen as a knife, and has all the important matters 
from the bank referred to him. I believe that he will last a 
year yet, but he will scarcely allow me out of his sight. He 
preaches away about business the whole day long, and says 
that he wants to communicate the fruits of his experience to 
me before it is too late. He wishes to see you ; so if you will, 
you had better come up.” 

Accordingly, they went upstairs to a large and luxurious 
bedroom on the first floor, where the stricken man lay upon a 
patent couch. 

When Mr. Quest -and Edward Cossey entered, a lady, old 
Mr. Cossey’s eldest daughter, put down a paper out of which 
she had been reading the money article aloud, and, rising in- 
formed her father that Mr. Quest had come. 

“Mr. Quest?” said the old man, in a thin voice. “Ah, 
yes, I want to see Mr. Quest very much. Go away now, Anna ; 
you can come back by and by ; business before pleasure — 


COLONEL qUARlTCn, V.G, 


99 


most instructive, though, that sudden fall in American rail- 
ways. But I thought it would come, and I got Cossey & Son 
clear of them,” and he sniffed with satisfaction, and looked as 
though he would have rubbed his hands if he had not been 
j)hysically incapacitated from so doing. 

Mr. Quest came forward to where the invalid lay. He was 
a gaunt old man with white hair and a pallid face, which 
looked almost ghastly in contrast to his black velvet skull-cap. 
So far as Mr. Quest could see, he appeared to be almost to- 
tally paralyzed, with the exception of his head, neck, and left 
arm, which he could still move a little. His black eyes, how- 
ever, were full of life and intelhgence, and roamed about the 
room without ceasing. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Quest ? ” he said ; “ sorry that I can’t 
shake hands with you, but you see I have been stricken down, 
though my brain is clear enough — clearer than ever it w^as, I 
think. And I ain’t going to die yet — don’t think that I am, 
because I ain’t. I may live two years more — the doctor says 
that I am sure to live one at least. A lot of money can be 
made in a year if you keep your eyes open. Once I made a 
hundred and twenty thousand for Cossey & Son in one year ; 
and I may do it again before I die. I may make a lot of money, 
ah, a lot of money,” and his voice went off into a kind of thin 
scream that was not pleasant to listen to. 

“ I am sure I hope you will, sir,” said INIr. Quest, politely. 

“Thank you; take that for good-luck, you know. Well, 
well, Mr. Quest, things haven’t done so bad down in your 
part of the world ; not at all bad considering the times. I 
thought we should have to sell that old De la Molle up, but 
I hear that he is going to pay us off. Can’t imagine who has 
been fool enough to lend him the money. A client of yours, 
eh ? Well, he’ll lose it, I expect, and serve him right for his 
pains. But I am not sorry, for it is unpleasant for a house 
like ours to have to sell an old client up. Not that his ac- 
count is worth much, nothing at all — more trouble than pro- 
fit — or we should not have done it. He’s no better than a 
bankrupt, and the Insolvency Court is the best place for him. 
The world is to the rich and the fulness thereof. There’s an 
insolvency court specially provided for De la Molle and his 
like — empty old windbags with long-sounding names ; let 
him go there, and make room for the men who have made 
money — hee ! hee ! hee ! ” And once more his voice went off 
into a sort of scream. 

Here Mr. Quest, who had had about enough of this sort of 
thing, changed the conversation by commencing to comment 


100 


COLONEL QUAHTTCIl V.O. 


on various business transactions wliicli lie had been conduct- 
ing oil behalf of the house. The old man listened with the 
greatest interest, his keen black eyes attentively fixed upon 
the speaker’s face, till at last Mr. Quest happened to mention 
that among others a certain Colonel Quaritch had opened an 
account with their branch of the bank. 

“Quaritch?” said the old man, eagerly; “I know that 
name. Was he ever in the One-hundred-and -fifth Foot ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Quest, who knew everything about every- 
body ; “ he was an ensign in that regiment during the Indian 
Mutiny, where he was badly wounded when still quite young, 
and got the Victoria Cross. I found it all out the other 
day.” 

“ That’s the man ; that’s the man,” said old Mr. Cossey, 
jerking his head in an excited manner. “ He’s a blackguard ; 
I tell you he’s a blackguard ; he jilted my wife’s sister. She 
was twenty years younger than my wife — jilted her a week 
before her marriage, and w^ould never give a reason, and she 
went mad, and is in a mad-house now. I should like to have 
the ruining of him for it. I should like to drive him into the 
poor-house.” 

Mr. Quest and Edward looked at each other, and the old 
man let his head fall back exhausted. 

“ Now good-by, Mr. Quest ; they’ll give you a bit of din- 
ner down-stairs,” he said, at length. “ I’m getting tired, and 
I want to hear the rest of that money article. You’ve done 
very well for Cossey & Son, and Cossey & Son will do well 
for 3"ou, for we' always pay by results ; that’s the way to get 
good work and make a lot of money. Mind, Edward, if ever 
you get a chance don’t forget to pay that blackguard Quaritch 
out pound for pound, and twice as much again for compound 
interest — hee ! hee ! hee ! ” 

“ The old gentleman keeps his head for business pretty 
w^ell,” said Mr. Quest, to Edward Cossey as soon as they were 
well outside the door. 

“Keeps his head?” answered Edward. “I should just 
think he did ? He’s a regular shark now — that’s wEat he is. I 
really believe that if he knew I had found that thirty thousand 
for old De la Molle he would cut me off with a shilling.” 
Here Mr. Quest pricked up his ears. “And he’s close too,” 
he went on, “ so close that it is almost impossible to get any- 
thing out of him. I am not particular, but upon mj" word I 
think that it is rather disgusting to see an old man with one 
foot in the grave hanging on to his money-bags as though he 
expected to float to heaven on them.” 


COLONEL qUARITCHy F. 6'. 


101 


“Yes,” said Mr, Quest, “it is a curious thing to think of, 
but, you see, money is his heaven.” 

“ By the way,” said Edward, as they entered the study, 
“ that’s queer about that fellow Quaritch, isn’t it ? I never 
liked the look of him, with his pious air.” 

“Very queer, Mr. Cossey,” said he; “but do you know, I 
almost think that there must be some mistake. I do not be- 
lieve that Colonel Quaritch is the man to do things of that 
sort without a very good reason. However, nobody can tell, 
and it is a long wtoe ago.” 

“A long while ago or not, I mean to let him know my 
opinion of him when I get back to Boisingham,” said Ed- 
ward, viciously. 

“ By Jove ! it’s twenty minutes past six, and in this estab- 
lishment we dine at the pleasant hour of half past. Won’t 
you come and wash your hands ? ” 

Mr. Quest got a very good dinner, and, contrary to his 
custom, he drank the best part of a bottle of old port after 
it. He had an unpleasant business to face that evening, and 
felt as though his nerves required bracing. About ten 
o’clock he took his leave, and getting into a hansom, bade 
the cabman drive to Stanley Street, Pimlico, where he arrived 
in due course. Having dismissed his cab, he walked slowly 
down the street till he reached a small house with red pil- 
lars to the doorway. Here he rang the bell. The door was 
opened by a middle-aged j^voman with a cunning face and a 
simper. Mr. Quest knew her well. Nominally the Tiger’s 
servant, she was really her jackal, and in return for the intel- 
ligence she lent to the chase received her portion of the prey. 

“Is Mrs. D’Aubigne at home, Ellen?” he said. 

“ No, sir,” she answered, with a simper ; “ but she will be 
back from the Music Hall before long. She does not appear 
in the second part. But please come in, sir ; you are quite a 
stranger here, and I am sure that Mrs. D’Aubigne will be veiy 
glad to see you, for she have been dreadfully pressed for 
money of late, poor dear ; nobody knows the trouble I have 
had with those sharks of tradesmen.” . 

By this time they were up-stairs in the drawing-room, and 
Ellen had turned the gas up. The room was well furnished in 
a certain gaudy style, which included a good deal of gilt and 
plate glass. Evidently, however, it had not been tidied since 
the Tiger had left it, for there on the table were cards thrown 
this way and that amidst an array of empty soda-water bot- 
tles, glasses, with dregs of brandy in them, and other debris, 
such as the ends of cigars and cigarettes, and a little copper 


102 


COLONEL qUABITCHy V.C. 


and silver money. On the sofa, too, lay a gorgeous tea gown 
resplendent with pink satin, also a pair of gold-embroidered 
slippers, not over small, and an odd gant de Suede with such 
an extraordinary number of buttons that it almost looked like 
the cast-off skin of a brown snake. 

“I see that your mistress has been having company, 
Ellen,” he said, coldly. 

Yes, sir ; just a few lady friends in to cheer her up a bit,” 
answered the woman with her abominable simper ; poor 
dear, she do get that low with you away so much, and no 
wonder ; and then all these money troubles, and she night by 
night working hard for her living. Often and often have I 
seen her crying over it all ” 

Ah,” said he, breaking in upon her eloquence, ‘‘ I sup- 
pose that the lady friends smoke cigars. Well, clear away 
this mess and leave me — stop, give me a brandy and soda first. 
I will wait for your mistress.” 

The woman stopped talking and did as she was bid, for 
there was a look in Mr. Quest’s eye which she did not quite 
like. So having placed the brandy and soda-water before 
him, she left him to his own reflections. 

Apparently they were not very pleasant ones. He walked 
round the room, which was reeking of patchouli or some such 
compound, well mixed with the odor of stale cigar smoke, 
looking absently at the gewgaw ornaments. On the mantle- 
piece were some photographs, and among them, to his dis- 
gust, he saw one of himself. With something as near an oath 
as he ever indulged in, he seized it, and setting fire to it over 
the gas, waited till the flames began to scorch his fingers, and 
then flung it, still flaming, down into the grate. Then he 
looked at himself in the glass over the mantel-piece — the room 
was full of mirrors — and laughed bitterly, at the incongruity 
of his gentleman-like, respectable, and even refined appear- 
ance in that vulgar, gaudy, vicious-looking room. 

Suddenly he bethought him of the letter in his wife’s hand- 
writing which he had stolen from the pocket of Edward 
Cossey’s coat. He drew it out, and throwing the tea gown 
and the interminable glove off the sofa, sat down and com- 
menced to read it. It was, as he had expected, a love-letter, 
a wildly passionate love-letter, breathing language which in 
places almost touched the beauty of poetry, vows of undying 
affection that were throughout redeemed from vulgarity and 
even from silliness by their utter earnestness and self-aban- 
donment. Had the letter been one written under happier cir- 
cumstajace^ and innocent of offence against morality, it would 


COLONEL qUARlTGH, V.G. 103 

liavG been a beautiful letter, for passion at its highest has al- 
ways a beauty of its own. 

He read it through, and then carefully folded it and re- 
stored it to his pocket. “ The woman has a heart,” he said to 
himself ; “ no one can doubt it. And yet I could never touch 
it, though God knows however much I wronged her I loved 
her, yes, and love her now. Well, it is a good bit of evi« 
dence, if ever I dare to use it. It is a game of bluff between 
me and her, and I expect that in the end the bolder player 
will win.” 

He rose from the sofa — the atmosphere of the place stifled 
him — and going to the window, he threw it open and stepped 
out on to the balcony. It was a lovely moonlight night, though 
chilly, and for London the street was a quiet one. 

Taking a chair, he sat down there upon the balcony and 
began to think. His heart was softened by misery, and his 
mind fell into a tender groove. He thought of his long- 
dead mother, whom he had dearly loved, and of how he used 
to say his prayers to her, and of how she sang hymns to him 
on Sunday evenings. Her death had seemed to choke all the 
beauty out of his being at the time, and yet now he thanked 
God that she was dead. And then he thought of the accursed 
woman who had been his ruin, and of how she had entered 
into his life and corrupted and destroyed him. Next there 
rose up before him a vision of Belle, Belle as he had first seen 
her, a maid of seventeen, the only child of that drunken old vil- 
lage doctor, now also long since dead, and of how the sight of 
her had for a while stayed the corruption of his heart because 
he grew to love her. And then he married Belle by foul means, 
and the woman rose up in his path again, and he learned that 
his wife hated him with all the energy of her passionate heart. 
Then came degradation after degradation, and the abandon- 
ment of principle after principle, replaced only by a fierce 
craving for respectability and rest, a long, long, struggle,, 
which ever ended in new lapses from the right, till at length 
he saw himself a hardened schemer, remorselessly pursued 
by a fury from whom there was no escape. And yet he knew 
that under other circumstances he might have been a good 
and happy man — leading an honorable life. But now all hope, 
had gone, that which he was he must be till the end. He leaned 
his head upon the stone railing in front of him and wept, yes, 
wept in the anguish of his soul, praying to God for deliverance 
from the burden of his sins, and yet well knowing that he 
had none to hope for. For his chance was gone and his fate 
fixed, 


104 - 


COLONEL qUARlTGH, V.G. 


CHAPTEB XVIL 

THE TIGRESS IN HER DEN. 

Presently a hansom-cab came rattling down the street and 
pulled up at the door. 

“Now for it,” said Mr. Quest to himself, as he metaphori- 
cally shook himself together. 

Next minute he heard a voice, which he knew only too well 
— a loud, high voice — say from the cab, “ Well, open the 
door, stupid, can’t you?” 

“ Certainly, my lady fair,” replied another voice — a coarse, 
somewhat husky male voice — “ adored Edithia, in one mo- 
ment.” 

“ Come, stow that rot and let me out,” replied the adored 
Edithia, sharply ; and in another moment a large man in 
evening clothes, a horribly vulgar, carnal-looking man, with 
red cheeks and a hanging underlip, emerged into the 
lamp-light and turned to hand the lady out. As he did so, 
the woman Ellen advanced from the doorway, and going to 
the cab door, whispered something to its occupant. 

“Hullo, Johnnie,” said that lady, as she descended from 
the cab, so loudly that Mr. Quest on the balcony could hear 
every word, “you must be off; Mr. D’Aubigne has turned 
up, and perhaps he won’t think three good company, so you 
had just best take this cab back again, my son, and that will 
save me the trouble of paying for it. Come, cut.” 

“ D’Aubigne,” growled the flashy man, with an oath ; “ what 
do I care about D’Aubigne ? Advance, D’Aubigne, and all’s 
well ! You needn’t be jealous of me ; I’m a married man. I 
am ” 

“ Now, stop that noise and be off. He’s a lawyer, and he 
might not freeze on to you ; don’t you understand ? ” 

“ Well, I’m a lawyer too, and a pretty sharp one — arcades 
ambo,'’ said Johnnie, with a coarse laugh; “and I can tell you 
what it is, Edith, it ain’t good enough to cart a fellow down 
into this howling wilderness and then send him away without 
even a drink ; lend us another five at any rate. It ain’t good 
enough, I say.” 

“ Good enough or not you’ll have to go, and you don’t get 
any fivers out of me to-night. Now pack sharp, or I’ll know 
the reason why, ” and she pointed toward the cab in a fashion 


COLONEL QVAUrr(Ll\ V.C. 


105 


that seemed to cow her companion, for without another word 
he turned and got into it. 

‘‘Where to, sir?” said the cabman. 

“Oh, to hell or the Haymarket, it’s all one 1” he growled, 
flinging himself back into the corner. In another moment 
the cab had turned, and he was gone, muttering curses as he 
went. 

The woman, who was none other than Mrs. D’Aubigne, alias 
Edith Jones, alias the Tiger, turned and entered the house, 
accompanied by her servant Ellen, and presently Mr. Quest 
heard the rustle of her satin dress upon the stairs. He step- 
ped back into the darkness of the balcony and waited. She 
opened the door, entered, and closed it behind her, and then, 
a little dazzled by the light, stood for some seconds looking 
about for her visitor. She was a thin, tall woman, who 
might have been any age between forty and fifty, with the 
wrecks of a very fine, agile-looking figure. Her face, which was 
plentifully bedaubed with paint and powder, was sharp, fierce, 
and handsome, and crowned with a mane of false yellow hair. 
Her eyes were cold and blue, her lips thin and rather drawn, so 
as to show a double line of large and gleaming teeth. She was 
dressed in a rich and hideous tight-fitting gown of yellow satin, 
barred with black, and on her arms were long bright yellow 
gloves. She moved lightly and silently, and looked round 
her with a long, searching gaze like that of a cat, and her 
general appearance conveyed an idea of hunger and wicked 
ferocity. Such was the outward appearance of the Tiger, and 
of a truth it justified her name. “ Why, where the dickens 
has he got to? ” she said, aloud. “I wonder if he has given 
me the slip ? ” 

“Here I am, Edith,” said Mr. Quest, quietly, as he stepped 
from the balcony into the room. 

“ Oh, there you are, are you ? ” she said, “ hiding away in 
the dark — just like your nasty mean ways ! Well, my long- 
lost one, and so you have come home at last, and brought the 
tin with you. Well, give us a kiss,” and she advanced on him 
with her long arms outspread. 

Mr. Quest shivered visibly, and stretching out his hand, 
stopped her from coming near him. 

“No, thank you,” he said ; “ I don’t like paint.” 

The taunt stopped her, and for a moment an evil light 
shone in her cold eyes. 

“No wonder I have to paint,” she said, “ when I am so worn 
out with poverty and hard work — ^not like the lovely Mrs Q., 
who has nothing to do all day except spend the money that I 


106 


COLONEL qUARITGiT, V.C. 


ought to have. I’ll tell you what it is, my fine fellow : you 
had better be careful, or I’ll have that pretty cuckoo out of 
her soft nest, and pluck her borrowed feathers off her, like 
the monkey did to the parrot.” 

Perhaps you had better stop that talk, and come to busi- 
ness. I am in no mood for this sort of thing, Edith,” and he 
turned round, shut the window, and drew the blind. 

“ Oh, all right ; I’m agreeable, I’m sure. Stop a bit, 
though — I must have a brandy and soda first. I am as dry 
as a lime-kiln, and so would you be if you had to sing comic 
songs, at a music hall for a living. There, that’s better,” and 
she put down the empty glass and threw herself on to the 
sofa. “ Now, then, tune up as much as you like. How much 
tin have you brought ? ” 

Mr. Quest sat down by the table, and then, as though sud- 
denly struck by a thought, rose again, and going to the door, 
opened it, and looked out into the passage. There was no- 
body there, so he shut the door again, locked it, and then, 
under cover of drawing the curtain which hung over it, 
slipped the key into his pocket. 

“ What are you at there ? ” said the woman, suspiciously. 

“ I was just looking to see that Ellen was not at the key- 
hole, that’s all. It would not be the first time that I have 
caught her there.” 

“ Just like your nasty low ways again,” she said. “ You’ve 
got some game on. I’ll be bound that you have got some 
game on.” 

Mr. Quest seated himself again, and without taking any 
notice of this last remark, began the conversation. 

‘‘ I have brought you two hundred and fifty pounds,” he 
said. 

“Two hundred and fifty pounds ! ” she said, jumping up 
with a savage laugh. “No, my boy, you don’t get off for 
that, if I know it. Why, I owe all that at this moment.” 

“You had better sit down and be quiet,” he said, “or you 
will not get two hundred and fifty pence. In your own in- 
terest I recommend you to sit down.” 

There was something about the man’s voice and manner 
that scared the female savage before him, fierce as she was, 
and she sat down. 

“Listen,” he went on. “ You are continually complaining 
of poverty ; I come to your house — your house, mind you, 
not your rooms — and I find the debris of a card party lying 
about. I see champagne bottles freshly opened there in the 
corner. I see a dressing-gown on the sofa that must have 


COLONEL qilARlTCH, Ko. 


cost twenty or thirty pounds. I hear some brute as^^ , 
yours out in the street asking you to lend him another ‘fivex. 
You complain of poverty, and you have had over four hun- 
dred pounds from me this year alone, and I know that you 
earn twelve pounds a week at the music hall, and not five, as 
you say. No, do not trouble to lie to me, for I have made 
inquiries.” 

“ Spying again,” said the woman with a sneer. 

“ Yes, spying, if you like ; but there it is. And now to the 
point ; I am not going on supplying you with money at this 
rate. I cannot do it, and I will not do it. I am going to give 
you two hundred and fifty pounds now, and as much every 
year, and not one farthing more.” 

Once more she sat up. “ You must be mad,” she said, in 
a tone that sounded more like a snarl than a human voice. 
“♦Are you such a fool as to believe that I will be put off with 
two hundred and fifty pounds a year — I, your legal wife ? I’ll 
have you in the dock first, in the dock for bigamy.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “I do believe it, for a reason that I 
shall give you presently. But first I want to go through our 
joint history, very briefly, just to justify myself, if you like. 
Five-and-twenty years ago, or was it six-and-twenty, I was a 
boy of eighteen and you were a woman of twenty, a house- 
maid in my mother’s house, and^you made love to me. Then 
my mother was called away to nurse my brother, who died at 
school at Portsmouth, and I fell sick with scarlet fever, and 
you nursed me through it — it would have been kinder if you 
had poisoned me — and in my weak state you got a great hold 
over my mind, and I became attached to you, for you were 
handsome in those days. Then you dared me to marry you, 
and partly out of bravado, partly from affection, I took out a 
license, to do which I made a false declaration that I was over 
age, and gave a false name of the parishes in which we re- 
sided. Next day, half tipsy and not knowing what I did, I 
went through the form of marriage with you, and a few days 
afterward my mother returned, observed that we were unduly 
intimate, and dismissed you. You went without a word as 
to our marriage, which we both looked on as a farce, and for 
years I lost sight of you. Fifteen years afterward, when I had 
almost forgotten this adventure of my youth, I became ac- 
quainted with a young lady with whom I fell in love, and 
whose fortune, though not large, was enough to help me con- 
siderably in my profession as a country lawyer, in which I 
was doing well. I thought that you were dead, or that, if 
you lived, the fact of my having made the false declaration of 


.^lONEL qUABITCH, V.G, 

.ocality would be enough to invalidate the marriage, 
,vould certainly have been the case if I had also made a 
false declaration of names ; and my impulses and interests 
prompting me to take the risk, I married that lady. Then it 
was that you hunted me down, and then for the first time I 
did what I ought to have done before,- and took the best legal 
opinions as to the validity of the former marriage, which, to 
my horror, I found was undoubtedly a binding one. You 
also took opinions, and came to the same conclusion. Since 
then the history has been a simple one. Out of my wife’s for- 
tune of ten thousand pounds I paid you no less than seven 
thousand as hush-money, on your undertaking to leave this 
country for America, and never return here again. I should 
have done better to face it out, but I feared to lose my po- 
sition and practice. You left, and wrote to me that you too 
had married in Chicago, but in eighteen months you returned, 
having squandered, every farthing of the money, when I found 
that the story of your marriage was an impudent lie.” 

“Yes,” she put in with a laugh, “and a rare time I had 
with that seven thousand, too.” 

“You returned and demanded more black-mail, and I had 
no choice but to give, and give, and give. In eleven years 
you had something over twenty-three thousand pounds from 
me, and you continually demand onore. I believe that you 
will admit that that is a truthful statement of the case,” and 
he paused. 

“ Oh yes,” she said, “ I am not going to dispute that ; but 
what then ? lam your wife, and you have committed bigamy; 
and if you don’t go on paying me I’ll have you in jail, and 
that’s all about it, old boy. You can’t get out of it any way, 
you nasty mean brute,” she went on, raising her voice and 
drawing up her thin lips so as to show the white teeth beneath. 
“ So you thought that^g^ou were going to play it down low on 
me in that fashion, did you ? Well, you’ve just made a little 
mistake for once in your life, and I’lf tell you what it is, you 
shall smart for it. I’ll teach you what it is to leave your law- 
ful wife to starve while you go and live with another woman 
in luxury. You can’t help yourself ; I can ruin you if I like. 
Supposing I go to a magistrate and ask for a warrant ? What 
can you do to keep me quiet ?” 

Suddenly the virago stopped as though she were shot, and 
her fierce countenance froze into an appearance of terror, as 
well it might. Mr. Quest, who had been sitting listening to 
her with his hand over his eyes, had risen, and his face was as 
the face of a fiend, alight with an intense and quiet fury 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


109 


which seemed to be burning inwardlj'. On the mantel-piece 
lay a sharp-pointed Goorka knife, which one of Mrs. D’Au- 
bigne’s admirers, who had travelled, had presented to her. 
It was an awful-looking weapon, and keen-edged as a razor. 
This he had taken up and held in his right hand and with it 
he was advancing toward her, ljung on the sofa. 

“ If you make a sound I will kill you at once,” he said, 
speaking in a low and husky voice. 

She had been paralyzed with terror, for, like most bullies, 
male and female, she was a great coward : but the sound of 
his voice roused her, aud the first note of a harsh screech had 
already issued from her lips, when he sprang upon her, and 
placing the sharp point of the knife against her throat, pricked 
her with it. “Be quiet,” he said, “or you are a dead wom- 
an.” 

She stopped screaming, and lay there, her face twitching, 
and her eyes bright with terror. 

“Now listen,” he said, in the same husky voice. “You 
incarnate fiend, you asked me just now how I could keep j^ou 
quiet. I will tell you : I can keep you quiet by running this 
knife up to the hilt in j^our throat,” and once more he pricked 
her with its point. “It would be murder,” he went on ; 
“butidonot care for that. You and others between you 
have not made my life so pleasaiit for me that I am especially 
anxious to preserve it. Now listen. I will give you the two 
hundred and fifty pounds that I have brought, and you shall 
have two hundred and fifty a year. But if you ever again at- 
tempt to extort more, or if you molest me, either by spread- 
ing stories against my character or by means of legal prosecu- 
tion, or in any other way, I swear by the Almighty that I 
will murder you. I may have to kill myself afterward — I 
don’t care if I do, provided I kill you first. Do you under- 
stand me ? you tiger, as you call yourstlf. If I have to hunt 
you down as they do tigers, I will come up with you at last, 
and kill you. You have driven me to it, and, by Heaven ! 
I will ! Come, speak up, aud tell me that you understand, or 
I may change my mind and do it now,” and once more he 
touched her with the knife. 

She rolled off the sofa on to the floor, and lay there writh- 
ing in abject terror, looking in the shadow of the table, 
wdiere her long lithe form was twisting about in its robe of 
yellow barred with black, more like one of the great cats 
from which she took her name than a human being. “Spare 
me,” she gasped — “ spare me ; I don’t want to die. I swear 
that I will never meddle with you again.” ^ 


110 


COLONEL QUAEITCn, V.G. 


“I don’t want your oaths, woman,” answered the stern 
form bending over her with the knife. “ A liar you have been 
from your youth up, and a liar you will be to the end. Do 
you understand what I have said.?” 

“Yes, yes, I understand. Ah! put away that knife; I 
can’t bear it 1 It makes me sick.” 

“ Very well, then ; get up.” 

She tried to rise, but her knees would not support her, so 
she sat upon the floor. 

“Now,” said Mr. Quest, replacing the knife upon the 
mantel-piece, “here is your money” and he flung a bag of 
notes and gold into her lap, at which she clutched eagerly 
and almost automatically. “The two hundred and fifty 
pounds will be paid on the 1st of January in each year, and not 
one farthing more will you get from me. Remember what I 
tell you : try to molest me by word or act, and you are a 
dead woman ; I forbid you even to write to me. Now go to 
the devil in your own way,” and without another word he 
took up his hat and umbrella, walked to the door, unlocked it, 
and went, leaving the Tiger huddled together upon the floor. 

For half an hour or more the woman remained thus, the 
bag of money in her hand. Then she struggled to her feet, 
her face livid and her body shaking. 

“Ugh,” she said, “I’m as weak as a cat. I thought he 
meant to do it that time, and he will too, for sixpence. He’s 
got me there. I am afraid to die. I can’t bear to dm It is 
better to lose the money than to die. Besides, if I blow on 
him he’ll be put in chokey, and I sha’n’t be able to get any- 
thing out of him, and when he comes out he’ll do for me.” 
And then, losing her temper, she shook her fist in the air, 
and broke out into a flood of language such as would neither 
be pretty to hear nor good to repeat. 

Mr. Quest was a ma^ of judgment. At last he had realized 
that in one way, and one only, can a wild beast be tamed, and 
that is by terror. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“what some have found so sweet.” 

Time went on. Mr. Quest had been back at Boisingham . 
for ten days or more, and was in better spirits than Belle (we 
can no longer call her his wife) had seen him in for years. 
Indeed, he felt as though ten years had been lifted oft his 


COLONEL qUAlUTCH, V.C. 


Ill 


back. He had taken a great and terrible decision, and bad 
acted upon it, and it had been successful, for he knew that 
his evil genius was so thoroughly terrified that for a long 
while at least he would be free from her persecutions. But 
with Belle his relations remained as strained as ever. 

Now that the reader is in the secret of Mr. Quests life, it 
will perhaps help him to understand the apparent strangeness 
of his conduct with reference to his wife and Edward Cossey. 
It is quite true that Belle did not know the full extent of her 
husband’s guilt. She did not know that he was not her 
husband, but she did know that nearly all of her little fortune 
had been paid over to another woman, and that woman a 
common, vulgar woman, as one of Edith’s letters, which had 
fallen into her hands by chance, very clearly showed her. 
Therefore had he attempted to expose her proceedings, or 
even to control her actions, she had in her hand an effective 
weapon of defence wherewith she could and would have given 
blow for blow. This state of affairs of necessity forced each 
party- to preserve an armed neutrality toward the other, 
whilst they waited for a suitable opportunity to assert them- 
selves. Not that their objects were quite the same. Belle 
merely wished to be free of her husband, whom she had 
always disliked, and whom she now positively hated, with that 
curious hatred which women occasionally conceive toward 
those to whom they are legally bound, when they have been 
bad enough or unfortunate enough to fall in love with some- 
body else. He, on the contrary, had that desire for revenge 
upon her which even the gentler stamp of man is apt to con- 
ceive toward one who, herself the object of his strong affection, 
daily and hourly repels and re^^ays it with scorn and infidelity. 
He did love her truly ; she was the one living thing in all his 
bitter lonely life to whom his heart had gone out. True, he 
put pressure on her to marry him, or, what comes to the 
same thing, allowed and encouraged her drunken old father 
to do so. But he had loved her and still loved her, and yet 
she mocked at him, and in the face of that fact about the 
money — her money, which he had paid away to the other 
woman — a fact which it was impossible for him to explain 
except by the admission of guilt which would be his ruin, 
what was he to urge to convince her of this, even had she 
been open to conviction? But it was bitter to him, bitter 
beyond all conception, to have this, the one joy of liis life, 
snatched from him. He threw himself with ardor into the 
pursuit after wealth and dignity of position, partly because 
he had a legitimate desire for these things, and partly to 


112 


COLONEL qUARITGE, Y.G. 


assuage the constant irritation of his mind, but to no purpose. 
These two spectres of his existence, his tiger wife and the 
fair woman who was his wife in name, constantly marched 
side by side before him, blotting out the beauty from every 
scene and souring the sweetness of every joy. But if in his 
pain he thirsted for revenge upon Belle, who would have 
none of him, how much more did he desire to be avenged 
upon Edward Cossey, who, as it were, had in sheer w'anton- 
ness robbed him of the one good thing he had ! It made him 
mad to think that this man, to whom he knew himself to be 
in every way superior, should have had the power thus to 
injure him, and he longed to pay him back measure for 
measure, and through his heart’s affections to strike him as 
mortal a blow as he had himself received. 

Mr. Quest was no doubt a bad man. His whole life was a 
fraud ; he was selfish and unscrupulous in his schemes and 
relentless in their execution ; but whatever may. have been 
the measure of his iniquities, he was not doomed to wait for 
another world to have them meted out to him again. His 
life, indeed, -was full of miseries, the more keenly felt because 
of the high pitch and capacity of his nature, and perhaps the 
sharpest of them all was the sickening knowledge that had it 
not been for that one fatal error of his boyhood, that one 
false step down the steep of Avernus, he might have been a 
a good and even a great man. 

Just now, however, his load was a little lightened, and he 
was able to devote himself to his money-making, and to the 
weaving of the web that was to destroy his rival, Edward Cos- 
sey, with a mind a little less preoccupied with other cares. 

Meanwhile things at the castle were going very pleasantly 
for everybody. The Squire was as happy in attending to the 
various details connected with the transfer of the mortgages 
as though he had been lending thirty thousand pounds in- 
stead of borrowing it. The great George was happy in the 
unaccustomed flow of borrowed cash that enabled him to 
treat Janter with a lofty scorn not unmingled with pity, 
which was as balm to his harassed soul, and also to transact 
an enormous amount of business in his own peculiar way with 
men up trees and otherwise, for had he not to stock the Moat 
Farm, and was not Michaelmas at hand ? 

Ida, too, was happy, happier than she had been since her 
brother’s death, for reasons that have already been hinted at. 
Besides, Mr. Edward Cossey was out of the way, and that to 
Ida was a very great thing, for his presence to her was what a 
policeman is to a ticket-of-leave man — a most unpleasant and 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


113 


suggestive sight. She fully realized the meaning and extent 
of the bargain into which she had entered to save her father 
and her house, and there lay upon her the deep shadow of 
evil that was to come. Every time she saw her father bust- 
ling about with his business letters and his parchments, every 
time the universal George arrived with an air of melancholy 
satisfaction and a long list of the farming stock and imple- 
ments he had bought at some neighboring Michaelmas sale, 
the shadow deepened, and she heard the clanking of her 
chains. Therefore she was the more thankful for her re- 
spite. 

Harold Quaritch was happy, too, though in a somewhat 
restless and peculiar way. Mrs. Jobson (the old lady who 
attended to his wants at Molehill, with the help of a gardener 
and a simple village maid, her niece, who smashed all the 
crockery and nearly drove the Colonel mad by banging the 
doors, shifting his papers and even dusting his trays of 
Roman coins) actually confided to some friends in the village 
that she thought the poor dear gentleman Avas going mad. 
When questioned on what she based this belief she replied 
that he would walk up and down the oak-panelled dining-room 
by the hour together, that then, when he got tired of that 
exercise, whereby, said Mrs. Jobson, he had already worn a 
groove in the new Turkey carpet, he would take out a 
“ rokey ” (foggy) looking bit of a picture and set it upon a 
chair, and stare, at it through his fingers, shaking his head 
and muttering all the while. Then — further and conclusive 
proof of a yielding intellect — he would get a half-sheet of 
paper with some writing on it, and put it on the mantel-piece 
and stare at that. Next he would turn it upside down and 
stare at it so, then sideways, then all ways, then he would 
hold it before a looking-glass and stare at the looking-glass, 
and so on. When asked how she knew all this, she confessed 
that Jane had seen it through the key-hole, not once, but 
often. 

Of course, as the practised and discerning reader will 
clearly understand, this meant only that when walking and 
w'earing out the carpet the Colonel was thinking of Ida ; when 
contemplating the painting that she had given him, he Avas ad- 
miring her work and trying to reconcile his admiration with 
his conscience and his someAvhat peculiar views of art ; and that 
Avhen glaring at the paper he Avas vainly endeavoring to make 
head or tail of the message Avritten to his son, on the night 
before his execution, by Sir James De la Molle in the reign of 
Charles I., and confidently believed by Ida to contain a key to 
8 


114 COLONEL QUAIilTGB, V.C, 

the whereabouts of the treasure he was supposed to have se- 
creted. 

Of course the tale of this worthy soul, Mrs. Jobson, did 
not lose in the telling ; and when it reached Ida’s ears, which 
it did at last, through the medium of George — for, in addi- 
tion to his numberless other functions, George was the sole 
authorized purveyor of village and country news — it read that 
Colonel Quaritch had gone raving mad. 

Ten minutes afterward this raving lunatic arrived at the 
castle in his dress clothes and his right mind, whereupon Ida 
promptly repeated her thrilling history, somewhat to the sub- 
sequent discomfort of Mrs. Jobson and Jane. 

No one, as somebody once said with equal truth and pro- 
fundity, knows what a minute may bring forth, much less, 
therefore, does anybody know what an evening of, say, two 
hundred and forty minutes may produce. For instance, Har- 
old Quaritch — though by this time he had gone so far as to 
freely admit to himself that he was utterly and hopelessly in 
love with Ida, in love with her with that settled and determined 
passion which sometimes strikes a man or woman in middle 
age — certainly did not know that before the evening was out 
he would have declared his devotion, with results that shall 
. be made clear in their decent order. When he put on his 
dress clothes to come up to dinner, he had no more intention 
of proposing to Ida than he had of not taking them off when 
he went to bed. His love was deep enough and steady enough, 
but perhaps it did not possess that wild impetuosity which 
carries people so far in their youth — sometimes, indeed, a 
great deal further than their reason approves. It was essen- 
tially a middle-aged devotion, and bore the same resemblance 
to the picturesque passion of five-and- twenty that a snow-fed 
torrent does to a navigable river. The one rushes and roars, 
and sweeps away the bridges, and devastates happy homes, 
while the other bears upon its placid breast the argosies of 
peace and plenty, and is geneiiy serviceable to the necessities 
of man. But for all that, there is something attractive about 
torrents. There is a grandeur in that first rush of passion 
which results from the sudden melting of the snows of the 
heart’s purity and faith and high unstained devotion. 

But both torrents and navigable rivers are liable to one 
common fate— 'they may fall over precipices, and when that 
happens even the latter cease to be navigable for a space. 
And that was what was about to happen '"to our friend the 
Colonel. 

To begin with, he had dined well, and whatever ardent 


115 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V,C. 

twenty-three may think of so gross and material a fact, it is 
certainly true that if a man is in love before dinner, he is five- 
and-twenty per cent, more in love after it. 

"Well, Harold Quaritch had dined, and he had had a pleas- 
ant as well as a good dinner. The Squire, who of late had 
been cheerful as a cricket, was in his best form, and told loug 
stories with an infinitesimal point. In anybody else’s month 
these stories would have been wearisome to a degree, but 
there was a gusto, an originality, and a kind of Tudor period 
flavor about the old gentleman, which made his worst and 
longest story acceptable in any society. The Colonel himself, 
too, had come out in a most unusual way. He had a fund of 
dry humor in him which he rarely produced, but when he 
did produce it, it was of a most satisfactory order. On this 
particular night it was all on view, greatly to the satisfaction 
of Ida, who was a witty as well as a clever woman. And so it 
came to pass that the dinner was a very pleasant one. 

Harold and the Squire were still sitting over their Avine, 
and the latter was for the fifth time giving to the former a 
full and particular account of hoAv his deceased aunt, Mrs. 
Massey, had been persuaded by a learned antiquarian to con- 
vert, or rather restore. Dead Man’s Mount to its supposed 
primitive condition of an ancient British dwelling, and of the 
extraordinary expression of her face when the bill came in, 
Avhen suddenly the servant announced that George was wait- 
ing to see him. ^ 

The old gentleman ^grumbled a great deal, but finally got 
up and departed to enjoy himself for the next hour or so in 
talking about things in general with his retainer, leaving his 
guest to find his way to the drawing-room. 

When the Colonel reached the room, he found Ida seated 
at the piano, singing. She heard him shut the door, looked 
round, nodded prettily, and then went on with her singing. 
He came and sat down on a low chair some two paces from 
her, placing himself in such a position that he could see her 
face, which indeed he always found a wonderfully pleasant 
object of contemplation. Ida was playing without music — 
the only light in the room was that of a Ioav lamp with a red 
fringe to it. Therefore he could not see very much, being 
only with difficulty able to trace the outlines of her features ; 
but if the shadow thus robbed him, it on the other liai'Ci k iit 
her a beauty of its own, clothing her face with an atmos})kcie 
of wonderful softness which it did not always possess in tlie 
glare of day. The Colonel, indeed (we must remember iLat 
he was in love and that it was after dinner), became quite 


X 


116 COLONEL qUARITGH, V.C, 

poetical (internally, of course) about it, and in bis heart com- 
pared her, first to St. Cecelia at her organ, and then to the 
Angel of the Twilight. He had never seen her look so lovely. 
At her worst she was a handsome and noble-looking woman, 
but now the shadow from without, and — though he knew 
nothing of that — the shadow from her heart within also, aided 
maybe by the music’s swell, had softened and purified her face 
till it did indeed look almost like an angel’s. It is strong, 
powerful faces that are capable of the most tenderness, not 
the soft and pretty ones ; and even in a plain person, when 
such a face is in this way seen, it gathers a peculiar beauty of 
its own. But Ida was not a plain person, so on the ,whole it 
is scarcely to be wondered at that a certain effect was produced 
upon Harold Quaritch. 

Ida, to outward appearance at any rate, all unconscious of 
what was passing in her admirer’s mind, went on singing 
almost without a break. She had a good memory and a 
sweet voice, and really liked music for its own sake, so it was 
no great effort to her to do so. 

Presently she came to a song from Tennyson’s ‘‘ Maud,” 
the tender and beautiful words whereof will be familiar to 
most of the readers of her story. It began — 

“Oh, let the solid ground 
Not fail beneath my feet 
Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet. ” 

The song is a lovely one, and it did not suffer from her 
rendering, and the effect produced upon Harold by it was of 
a most peculiar nature. All his past life seemed to heave 
and break beneath the magic of the music and the magic of 
the singer, as a Northern field of ice breaks up beneath the 
outburst of the summer sun. It broke up, and sank, and 
vanished into the depths of his nature — those dread un- 
measured depths that roll and murmur in the vastness of 
each human heart as the sea rolls beneath its cloak of ice, 
that roll and murmur here, and set toward a shore of which 
we have no chart or knowledge. The past was gone, the 
frozen years had melted, and once more the sweet strong air 
of youth blew across his heart, and once more there was blue 
sky above, wherein the angels sailed. Under the influence of 
that song the barrier of self broke down, and his being went 
out to meet her being, and ail the possibilities of life seemed 
to breathe afresh. 

He sat and listened, and as he listened, trembled in his 


117 


. COLONEL qUAUlTCH, V.C. 

agitation, till the sweet echoes of the music died upon the quiet 
air. They died, and were gathered into the emptiness which 
receives and records all things, the oath and the prayei', 
the melody and the scream of agony, the shout of triumph 
and the wail of woe, and left him broken. 

She turned to him, smiling faintly, for the song had moved 
her also, and he felt that he must speak. 

“ That is a beautiful song,” he said ; “ sing it again if you 
do not mind.” 

She made no answer, but once more sang 

“ Oh, let the solid ground 

Not fail beneath my feet 
Before my life has found 

What some have found so sweet,” 

and then suddenly broke off. 

“ Why are you looking at me ? ” she said. I can feel you 
looking at me, and you make me nervous.” 

He bent toward her and looked her in the eyes. 

“ I love you, Ida,” he said — “ I love you with all my heart,” 
and he stopped suddenly. 

She turned quite pale — even in that light he could see her 
pallor — and her hands fell heavily on the keys. 

The echo of the crashing notes rolled round the room and 
died slowly away, but still she said nothing. 


CHAPTEK XIX. 

IN PAWN. 

At last she spoke, apparently with a great effort. 

“ It is stifling in here,” she said ; “let us go out ; ” and 
she rose, took up a shawl that lay beside her on a chair, and 
stepped through a French, window into the garden. It was 
a lovely autumn night, and the air was still as death, with 
just a touch of frost in it. 

Ida threw the shawl over her shoulders, and, followed by 
Harold, walked on through the garden till she came to the 
edge of the moat, wdiere there was a seat. Here she sat 
down and fixed her eyes upon the hoary old battlements of 
the gateway, clad in their solemn robe of moonlight. 

Harold looked at her, and felt that if he had anything to say 
the time had come for him to say it, and that she had 


118 


COLONEL. QVABlTGH, V.O. 


brought him here in order that she might be able to listen 
undisturbed. So he began again and told her that he loved 
her dearly. “ I am some seventeen years older than you,” he 
went on, “ and I suppose that the most active part of my life 
lies in the past ; and I don’t know if, putting other things 
aside, you would care to marry so old a man, especially as I am 
not rich. Indeed, I feel it presumptuous on my part, seeing 
what you are and what I am, to ask you to do so. And yet, 
Ida, I believe that, if you could care for me, with God’s bless- 
ing, we should be very happy together. I have led a lonely 
life, and have had little to do with women. Once, many 
years ago, I was engaged, and the matter ended painfully, 
and that is all. But ever since I first saw j^our face in the 
drift five years and more ago, it has haunted me and been 
with me ; and then I came to live here and have learned to 
love you. Heaven only knows how much, and I should be 
ashamed to try to put it into words, for they would sound 
foolish. All my life is wrapped up in you, and I feel as 
though, should you see me no more, I should never be a hap- 
py man again,” and he paused and looked anxiously at her 
face, which was set and drawn as though with pain. 

“I cannot say ‘Yes,’ Colonel Quaritch,” she answered at 
length, in a tone that puzzled him, it was so tender and so 
unfitted to the words. 

“I suppose,” he stammered — “I suppose that you do not 
care for me? Of course I have no right to expect that you 
would.” 

“As I have said that I cannot say ‘Yes,’ Colonel Quaritch, 
do you not think I had better leave that question unan- 
swered ? ” she replied, in the same soft notes, which seemed 
to draw the heart out of him. 

“ I do not understand,” he went on. “ Why ? ” 

“ Why ? ” she broke in, with a bitter little laugh. “ Shall I 
tell you why? Because I am in pawn. Look,” she went on, 
pointing to the stately towers and the broad lands beyond. 
“You see this place. 1 am security for it — I myself, in my 
own person. Had it not been for me it would have been sold 
over our heads after having descended in our family for all 
these centuries — put upon the market and sold for what it 
would fetch, and my old father would have been turned out 
to die, for it w^ould have killed him. So you see I did what 
unfortunate women have often been driven to do — I sold my- 
self body and soul ; and I got a good price too — thirty thou- 
sand pounds,” and suddenly she burst into a flood of tears, 
and began to sob as though her heart would break. 


COLO’Nj^u 


119 


For a moment Harold Quaritcli looked on bewildered, not 
in the least understanding what Ida meant ; and then he fol- 
lowed the impulse common to mankind in similar circum- 
stances, and took her in his arms. She did not resent the 
movement, indeed she scarcely seemed to notice it, though, 
to tell the truth, for a moment or two, which to the Colonel 
seemed the happiest of his life, her head rested on his 
shoulder. 

Almost instantly, however, she raised it, freed herself from 
his embrace, and ceased weeping. 

“As I have told 3^ou so much,” she said, “I suppose I had 
better tell 3^ou everything. I know that whatever the tempta- 
tion,” and she laid great stress upon the words, “ under any 
conceivable circumstances — indeed, even if j'ou believed you 
were serving me in so doing — I can rely upon j’^ou never to 
reveal to anybod}^, and above all to my father, what I now tell 
}^ou,” and she paused and looked up at him with eyes in which 
the tears still SAvam. 

“ Of course you can rely upon me,” he said. 

“ Very well. I am sure that I shall never have to reproach 
3"ou with the Avords. I will tell you. I have virtually prom- 
ised to marry Mr. EdAvard Cossey should he at any time be in 
a position to claim fulfilment of the promise, on condition 
of his taking up the mortgages of Honham, which he has 
done.” 

Harold Quaritch took a step back and looked at her in hor- . 
rified astonishment. 

“ What ? ” he askM. 

“ Yes, yes,” she answered, hastily, putting up her hands as 
though to shield herself from a bloAV. “I know what you 
mean ; but do not think too hardly of me if you can help it. 
It Avas not for myself. I would rather work for my living 
Avith my hands than take a price, for there is no other Avord 
for it. It was for my father and my family too. I could not 
bear to think of the old place going to the hammer, and I did 
it all in a minute Avithout consideration ; but,” and she set 
her face, “ even as things are, I believe I should do it again, 
because I think that no one woman has a right to destroy her 
family in order to please herself. If one of the tAvo must go 
let it be her. But don’t think hardly of me for it,” she added, 
almost pleadingly ; “ that is, if you can help it.” 

“I am not thinking of j'ou,” he ansAvered griml3^ “By 
Heaven, I honor you for Avhat you have done, for however 
much I may disagree Avith the act, it is a noble one. I am 
thinking of the man who could drive such a bargain Avith any 


120 


O r\ r^Jrxill'ClU 1^- ^^ 

woman. You say that you have promised to marry him should 
he ever be in a position to claim it. What do you mean by 
that? As you have told me so much, you may as well tell me 
the rest.” 

He spoke clearly and with a voice of authority, but his 
bearing did not seem to jar upon Ida. 

“I meant,” she said, humbly, “that I believe — of course I 
do not know if I am right — I believe that Mr. Cossey is in 
some way entangled with a lady — in short, with Mrs. Quest, 
and that the question of whether or no he comes forward 
again depends upon her.” 

“Upon my word,” said the Colonel — “upon my word the 
thing gets worse and worse. I never heard anything like it ; 
and for money too. The thing is beyond me.” 

“ At any rate,” she answered, “ there it is. And now, 
Colonel Quaritch, one word before I go in. It is difficult for 
me to speak without saying too much or too little, but I do 
want you to understand how honored and how grateful I feel 
for what you have told me to-night ; I am so little worthy of 
all you have given me, and, to be honest, I cannot feel as 
pained about it as I ought to feel. It is feminine vanity, you 
know, nothing else. I am sure you will not press me to say 
more.” 

“ No,” he answered — “no. I think that I understand the 
position. But, Ida, there is one thing that I must ask — you 
will forgive me if I am wrong in doing so, but all this is very 
sad for me. If in the end circumstances should alter, as I 
pray Heaven that they may, or if Mr. Cossey’s previous en- 
tanglements should prove too much for him, will yon marry 
me, Ida?” 

She thought for a moment, and then, rising from the seat, 
gave him her hand and said, simply, “ Yes, I will marry you.” 

He made no answer, but lifting her hand, touched it gently 
with his lips. 

“Meanwhile,” she went on, “I have your promise, and I 
am sure that you will not betray it, come what may,” 

“No,” he said, “ I will not betray it.” 

And they went in. 

In the drawing-room they found the Squire puzzling over 
a sheet of paper, on which were scrawled some of George’s 
accounts, in figures which at first sight bore about as much 
resemblance to Egyptian hieroglyphics as they did to those 
in use to-day. 

“ Hullo ! ” he said ; “ there you are. Where on earth 
have you been ? ” 


COLONEL QUAEITCII, V.G. 


121 


*‘We have been looking at the castle in the moonlight,” 
answered Ida, coolly. ‘‘It is beautiful.” 

“Um — ah!” said the Squire, dryly; “I have no doubt 
that it is beautiful ; but isn’t the grass rather damp? Well, 
look here,” and he held up the sheet of hief-oglyphics, 
“ perhaps you can add this up, Ida, for it is more than I can. 
George has bought stock and all sorts of things at the sale 
to-day, and here is his account ; three hundred and seventy- 
two pounds he makes it, but I make it four hundred and 
twent}^ and hang me if I can find out which is right. It is 
most important that these accounts should be kept straight 
— most important, and I cannot get this stupid fellow to do 
it. 


Ida took the sheet of paper and added it up, with the result 
that she discovered both totals to be wrong. Harold, watch- 
ing her, could not help wondering at the nerve of the woman 
who, after going through such a scene as that wliich had 
just occurred, could deliberately add up long rows of badly 
written figures. 

And this money which her father was expending so cheer- 
fully was part of the price for which she had bound herself. 

With a sigh he rose and said good-night, and went home 
with feelings almost too mixed to admit of accurate descrip- 
tion. He had taken a great step in his life, and to a certain 
extent that step had succeeded. He had not altogether built 
his hopes upon .sand, for from what Ida had said, and still 
more from what she had tacitly admitted, it was necessarily 
clear to him that she did more or less regard him as a man 
■would -wish to be regarded by a wmman whom he dearly 
loved. This was a great deal — more, indeed, than he had 
dared to believe ; but then, as is usually the case in this 
imperfect world, where things but too often seem to be care- 
fully arranged at sixes and sevens, came the other side of 
the shield. Of what use to him was it to have w’on this 
sweet woman’s love, of what use to have this pure -water of 
lawTul hajDpiness put to his lips in the desert land of his lonely 
life, in order to see the cup that held it shattered at a blow ? 
To him the story of the money loan — in consideration of 
which, as it were, Ida had put herself in pa-^m, as the 
Egyptians used to put the mummies of their fathers in pa-wn 
— was almost incredible. To a person of his simple and 
honorable nature it seemed a preposterous and unheai’d-of 
thing that any man calling himself a gentleman should find 
it possible to sink so low as to take such advantage of a 
woman’s dire necessity and honorable desire to save her 


122 


COLONEL QUAPJTCn, V.G, 


father from misery and her race from ruin, and to extract 
from her a promise of marriage in consideration of the value 
received. Putting aside his overwhelming personal interest 
in the matter, it made his blood boil to think that such a 
thing could be. And yet it was, and, what was more, he 
believed he knew Ida well enough to be convinced that she 
would not shirk the bargain. If Edward Cossey came for- 
ward to claim his bond, it would be paid down to the last 
farthing. It was a question of thirty thousand pounds ; the 
happiness of his life and of Ida’s depended upon a sum of 
money. If the money were forthcoming, Gossey could not 
claim his flesh and blood. But where was it to come from ? 
He himself was worth perhaps ten thousand pounds, or, with 
the commutation value of his pension, possibly twelve, and he 
had not the means of raising a farthing more. He thought 
the position over till he was tired of thinking, and then, with 
a heavy heart, and yet with a strange glow of happiness 
shining through his grief like sunlight through a gray sky, at 
last he went to sleep and dreamed that Ida had gone from 
him, and that he was once more utterly alone in the world. 

But if he had cause for trouble, how much more was it so 
with Ida ! Poor woman ! under her somewhat cold and 
stately exterior she had a deep and at times a passionate 
nature. For some weeks she had been growing strangely 
attached to Harold Quaritch, and now she knew that she 
loved him, so that there was no one thing that she desired 
more in this wide world than to become his wife. And yet 
she was bound, bound by a sense of honor, and a sense too of 
money received, to stay at the beck and call of a man she 
detested, and if at any time it pleased him to throw down 
the handkerchief, to be there to pick it up and hold it to her 
heart. It was bad enough to have had this hanging over her 
head when she was herself more or less in a passive condition, 
and therefore to a certain extent reckless as to her future ; 
but now that her heart was alight with the holy flame of a 
good woman’s love, now that her whole nature rebelled and 
cried out aloud against the sacrilege involved, it was both 
revolting and terrible. 

And yet so far as she could see there was no great proba- 
bility of escape. She was a shrewd and observant woman, 
and could gauge Mr. Cossey’s condition of mind toward her 
with more or less accuracy. Also she did not think it in the 
least likely that having spent thirty thousand pounds to ad- 
vance his object, he would be content to let his advantage 
drop. Such a course would be repellent to his trading in- 


COLONEL qUARITCH, KC 


123 


stincts. She knew in her heart that the hour was not far off 
when he would claim his own, and that unless some accident 
occurred to prevent it, it was practically certain that she 
would be called upon to fulfil her pledge, and whilst loving 
another man to become the wife of Edward Cossey. 


CHAPTER XX. 

GOOD-BY TO YOU, EDWAED. 

It was on the day following the one upon which Harold 
proposed to Ida that Edward Cossey returned to Boisingham. 
His father had so far recovered from his attack as to be at 
last prevailed upon to allow his departure, being chiefly 
moved thereto by the supposition that Cossey & Son’s branch 
establishments were suffering from his son’s absence. 

“Well,” he said in his high, piercing voice, “business is 
business, and must be attended to, so perhaps you had better 
go. They talk about the fleeting character of things, but 
there is one thing that never changes, and that is money. 
Money is immortal ; men may come and men may go, but 
money goes on forever. Hee ! hee ! Money is the honey- 
pot, and men are the flies ; and some get their fill and some 
stick their wings, but the honey is always there, so never 
mind the flies. No, never mind me ; you go and look after 
the honey, Edward. Money — honey, honey — money; they 
rhyme, don’t they ? And look here, by the way, if you get a 
chance — and the world is full of chances to men who have plen- 
ty of money — mind you don’t forget to pay out that half-pay 
Colonel — what’s his name ? — Quaritch. He played our family a 
dirty trick, and there’s your poor aunt Julia in a lunatic 
asylum to this moment, and a constant source of expense to 
us.” 

And so Edward bade his estimable parent farewell and de- 
parted. Nor, in truth, did he require any admonition from 
Mr. Cossey senior to make him anxious to do Colonel Quar- 
itch an ill turn if the opportunity should serve. Mrs. Quest, 
in her numerous affectionate letters, had more than once, 
possibly for reasons of her own, given him a full and vivid 
rhume of the local gossip about the Colonel and Ida, who 
were, she said, according to common report, engaged to be 
married. Now absence had not by any means cooled Edward’s 
devotion to Miss De la Molle, which was a sincere one enough 


124 


COLONEL qVARITGH, V,C. 


in its own way. On the contrary, the longer he was away 
from her the more his passion grew, and with it a vigorous 
undergrowth of jealousy. He had, it is true, Ida’s implied 
promise that she would marry him, if he chose to ask her, 
but on this he put no great reliance. Hence his hurry to re- 
turn to Boisingham. 

Leaving London by an afternoon train, he reached Bois- 
ingham about half-past six, and in pursuance of an arrange- 
ment already made, went to dine with the Quests. When he 
reached the house he found Belle alone in the drawing-room, 
for her husband, havmg come in late, was still dressing, but 
somewhat to his relief he had no opportunity of private con- 
versation with her, for a servant w^as in the room, attending 
to the fire, which would not burn. The dinner passed off 
quietly enough, though there was an ominous look about the 
lady’s face which he, being familiar with these signs of the 
feminine weather, did not altogether like. After dinner, how- 
ever, Mr. Quest excused himself, saying that he had promised 
to attend a local concert in aid of the funds for the restora- 
tion of the damaged pinnacle of the parish church, and he 
was left alone with the lady. 

Then it was that all her pent-up passion broke out. She 
overwhelmed him with her affection, she told him that her 
life had been a blank while he was away, she reproached him 
with the scarcity and coldness of his letters, and generally 
went on in a way to which he was well accustomed, and if the 
truth must be told, with which he was heartily tired. His 
mood was an irritable one, and to-night the whole thing 
wearied him beyond bearing. 

‘‘Come, Belle,” he said at last, “for goodness sake be a 
little more rational. You are getting too old for this sort of 
tomfoolery, you know.” 

She sprang up and faced him, her eyes flashing and her 
breast heaving wuth jealous anger. “What do you mean?” 
she said. “ Are you tired of me ? ” 

“ I did not say that,” he answered ; “ but as you have 
started the subject, I must tell you that I think all this has 
gone far enough. Unless it is stopped, I believe we shall both 
be ruined. I am sure that your husband is becoming suspi- 
cious : and, as I have told you again and again, if once this 
business gets to my father’s ears, he will disinherit me.” 

Belle stood quite still till he had finished. She had as- 
sumed her favorite attitude, and crossed her arms behind her 
back, and her sweet childish face was calm and very white. 

“What is the good of making excuses and telling me what 


125 


COLONEL QUAniTCII, V.C. 

is not true, Edward? ” she said. ‘“'One never hears a man 
who loves a woman talk like that ; prudeuce comes with 
weariness, and men grow virtuous Avheii there is nothing 
more to gain. You are tired of me. I have seen it a long 
tiine, but, like a poor blind fool, I have tried not to believe it. 
It is not a great reward to a woman who has given her whole 
life to a man, but perhaps it is as much as she can expect, 
for I do not want to be unjust to you. I am the most to 
blame, because a woman need never take a false step except 
of her own free-will.” 

“Well, well,” he said, impatiently, “what of it?” 

“ Only this, Edward. I have still a little pride left, and 
if you are tired of me, why — go'' 

He tried hard to prevent it, but do what he would, a look 
of relief struggled into his face. She saw it, and it made her 
wild with jealous anger. 

“You need not look so happy, Edward : it is scarcely de- 
cent ; and besides, you have not heard all that I have to say. 
I know what all this arises from. You are in love with Ida 
De la Molle. Now there I draw the line. You may leave me 
if you like, but you shall not marry Ida while I am alive to 
prevent it. That is more than I can bear. Besides, like a 
wise woman, she has fallen in love with Colonel Quaritch, 
who is worth two of you, Edward Cossey.” 

“ I do not believe it,” he answered ; “and what right have 
you to say that I am in love with Miss De la Molle ? And if 
I am in love with her, how cau you prevent me from marry- 
ing her if I choose ? ” 

“Tiy, and you will see,” she answered, with a little laugh. 
“And now, as the curtain has dropped, and it is all over be- 
tween us, wh}^, the best thing that we can do is to put out 
the lights and go to bed,” and she laughed again and courte- 
sied with much assumed playfulness. “Good-night, Mr. Cos- 
sey ; good-night, and good-by.” 

He held out his hand. “ Come, Belle,” he said, “ don’t let 
us j^art like this.” 

She shook her head, and once more put her arms behind 
her. “ No,” she answered, “ I will not take your hand. Of 
my own free-will I will never touch it again ; for to me it is 
like the hand of the dead. Good-by, once more ; good-by to 
you, Edward, and to all the happiness that I ever had. I built 
up all my life upon my love for you, and you have shattered it 
like glass. I do not reproach you, you have followed after 
your nature, and I must follow after mine, and in time all 
things will come right — in the grave, I shall not trouble you 


126 


COLONEL qUARITCn, V.G. 


any more, provided that you do not try to marry Ida, for that 
I will not bear. And now go, for I am very tired,” and turn- 
ing, she rang the bell for the servant to show him out. 

In another minute he was gone. , She listened till she 
heard the front door close behind him, and then she gave 
way to her grief, and flinging herself upon the sofa, covered 
her face with her hands and sobbed and moaned bitterly, 
weeping for the past, and weeping, too, for the long desolate 
yeai^ that were to come. Poor woman ! do not let us judge 
her too hardly, for whatever was the measure of her sin it had 
assuredly fouiid her out, as our sins always do And us out in 
the end. She had loved this man with a passion which has 
no parallel in the hearts of well-ordered and well-brought-up 
women. She had never really lived till this fatal passion took 
possession of her, and now that its object had deserted her, 
her heart felt as though it had died within her. In that 
short half-hour she suffered more than many women do in 
their whole lives ; but the paroxysm passed, and she rose 
pale and trembling, with set teeth and blazing eyes. 

“He had better be careful,” she said to herself. “He 
may go ; . but if he tries to marry Ida, I will keep my word — 
yes, for her sake as well as his.” 

When Edward Cossey came to consider the position, which 
he did seriously, on the following morning, he did not find it 
very satisfactory. To begin with, he was not altogether a 
heartless man, and such a scene as that which he had passed 
through on the previous evening was in itself quite enough 
to upset his nerves. At one time, at any rate, he had been 
much attached to Mrs. Quest ; he had never borne her violent 
affection — that had been all on her side — but still he had 
been fond of her, and if he could of done so, would probably 
have married her. Even now he was attached to her, and 
would nave been glad to remain her friend if she would have 
allowed it. But then came the time when her heroics com- 
menced to weary him, and he on his side began to fall in love 
with Ida De la Molle, and as he drew back so she came for- 
ward, till at length he was worn out, and things culminated 
as has been described. He was sorry for her too, knowing 
how deeply she was attached to him, though it is probable 
that he did not in the least realize the extent to which she 
suffered, for neither men nor women who have intentionally 
or otherwise been the cause of intense mental anguish to one 
of the opposite sex ever do quite realize this. They not un- 
naturally measure the trouble by the depth of their own, and 
are therefore very apt to come to erroneous conclusions. Of 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V,G. 


127 


course we are now speaking of cases where all the real pas- 
sion is on one side, and indifference or comparative indiffer- 
ence on the other ; for where it is mutual the grief will in 
natures of equal depth be mutual also. 

At any rate Edward Cossey was quite sensitive enough to 
feel the parting with Mrs. Quest acutely, and perhaps he felt 
the manner of it even more than the fact of the separa- 
tion. Then came another consideration. He was, it is true, 
free from his entanglement, which was in itself an enor- 
mous relief, but the freedom was of a conditional nature. 
Belle had threatened trouble in the most decisive tones 
should he attempt to carry out his secret purpose, which she 
had not been slow to divine, of marrying Ida. From some 
occult reason, at least to him it seemed occult, the idea of 
this alliance was peculiarly distasteful to her, though no 
doubt the true explanation was that she Believed, and not in- 
accurately, that it was in order to bring it about that he was 
bent upon deserting her. The question with him was, would 
she or would she not attempt to put her threat into execu- 
tion ? It certainly seemed to him difficult to imagine what 
steps she could take to that end, seeing that any such steps 
would necessarily involve her own exposure, and that too 
when there was nothing to gain, and when all hopes of there- 
by securing him for herself had passed away. Nor did he 
seriously believe that she would attempt anything of the sort. 
It is one thing for a woman to make such threats in the acute 
agony of her jealousy, and quite another for her to carry them 
out in cold blood. Looking at the matter from a man’s point 
of view, it seemed to him extremely improbable that when 
the occasiqn came she would attempt such a move. He for- 
got how much more violently, when once it has taken pos- 
session of her being, the storm of passion sweeps through 
such a woman’s heart than through a man’s, and how utterly 
reckless to all consequence the former sometimes becomes. 
For there are women for whom all things melt in that white 
heat of anguished jealousy — honor, duty, conscience, and the 
restraint of religion — and of these Belle Quest was one. 

But of this he was not aware ; and though he recognized a 
risk, he saw in it no sufficient reason to make him stay his 
hand. For day by day the strong desire to make Ida his 
wife had grown upon him, till at last it possessed him body 
and soul. For a long while the intent had been smoulder- 
ing in his breast, and the tale that he now heard, to the effect 
that Colonel Quaritch had been beforehand with him, had 
blown it to a flame. Ida was ever present in his thoughts, 


128 


COLONEL qUARITCn, V.G. 


even at night he could not be rid of her, for when he slept 
her vision, dark- eyed and beautiful, came stealing down his 
dreams. She was his heaven, and if by any ladder known to 
man he might climb thereto, thither he would climb. And 
so he set his teeth and vowed that, Mrs. Quest or no Mrs. 
Quest, he would set his fortune upon the hazard of the die, 
ay and win it, even if he loaded the dice. 

While he was still thinking thus, standing at his window 
and gazing out on to the market-place of the quiet little town, 
he suddenly saw Ida herself driving up in her pony-carriage. 
It was a wet and windy day, and the rain was on her cheek, 
and the wind tossed a little lock of her brown, hair. The cob 
was pulling, and her proud face was set, as she concentrated 
her energies upon holding him. Never to Edward Cossey 
had she looked more beautiful. His heart beat fast at the 
sight of her, and whatever doubts might have lingered in his 
mind vanished. Yes, he would claim her promise and marry 
her. 

Presently the pony-carriage pulled up at his door, and the 
boy who was sitting behind got down and rang the bell. He 
stepped back from the window, wondering what it could be. 

“ Will you please give that note to Mr. Cossey,” said Ida as 
the door opened, “and ask him to send an anwer?” and she 
was gone. 

The note was from the Squire, sealed with his big seal (the 
Squire always sealed his letters in the old-fashioned way), and 
contained an invitation to himself to shoot on the morrow. 
“ George wants me to do a little partridge driving,” it ended, 
“and to brush through one or tw'o of the small covers. There 
will only be Colonel Quaritch besides yourself andfteorge, but 
I hojDe that you will have a fair rough day. If I don’t hear from 
you I shall suppose that you are coming, so don’t trouble to 
write.” 

“Oh yes, I will go,” said Edward. “Confound that Quar- 
itch ! At any rate I can show him how to shoot ; and what is 
more, I will have it out with him -about my aunt.” 


COLONEL qUARITCE, V.C, 


129 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE COLONEL GOES OUT SHOOTING. 

The next morning was fine and still, one of those lovely 
autumn days of which we get four or five in the course of a 
season. After breakfast Harold Quaritch strolled down his 
garden, stood himself against a gate to the right of D.ead 
Man’s Mount, and looked at the scene. All about him, their 
foliage yellowing to its fall, were the giant oaks, which were 
the pride of the country-side, and so quiet was the air that 
not a leaf upon them stirred. The only sounds that reached 
his ears were the tapping of the nuthatclues as they sought 
their food in the rough crannies of the bark, and the occa- 
sional falling of a rich ripe acorn from its lofty place on to 
the frosted grass beneath. The sunshine shone bright, but 
with a chastened heat, the squirrels scrambled up the oaks, 
and high in the blue air the rooks pursued their path. It was 
a beautiful morning, for summer is never more sweet than oh 
its death-bed, and yet it filled him with solemn thoughts. 
How many autumns had those old trees seen, and how many 
would they still see, long after his eyes had lost their sight ? 
And if they were old, how old was the Dead Man’s Mount 
there to his left ? Old indeed, for he had discovered it was 
mentioned in Doolnsday-Book by that name. And what was 
it — a boundary hill, a natural formation, or, as its name im- 
plied, a funeral barrow ? He had half a mind to dig one day 
and find out — that is, if he could get anybody to dig for him, 
for the people about Honham were so firmly convinced that 
Dead Man’s Mount was haunted — a reputation that it had 
had from time immemorial — that nothing would have joer- 
suaded them to touch it. 

He contemplated the great mound carefully without com- 
ing to any conclusion, and then looked at his watch. It was 
a quarter to ten, time for him to start for the castle for the 
day’s shooting; so he got his guns and cartridges, and in 
due course arrived at the castle, to find George and several 
myrmidons, in the shape of beaters and boys, already stand- 
ing in the yard. 

“ Please, Colonel, the Squire hopes you’ll go in and have a 
glass of something before you start,” said George ; so accord- 
ingly he went, not to “ have a glass of something,” but on 
9 


130 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


the chance of seeing Ida. In the vestibule he found the old 
gentleman busily engaged in writing an enormous letter. 

“ Hullo, Colonel,” he holloaed, without getting up ; “ glad 
to see you ! Excuse me for a few moments, will you ; I want 
to get this off my mind. Here, Ida ! Ida ! Ida ! ” he shouted ; 
“ here’s Colonel Quaritch.” 

“ Good gracious, father,” said that young lady, arriving in 
a hurry, “ you are bringing the house down ! ” and then she 
turned round and greeted Harold. It was the first time that 
they had met since the eventful evening described a chapter 
or two back, so the occasion might be considered a little 
awkward ; at any rate he felt it so. 

“How do you do, Colonel Quaritch?” she said, quite sim- 
ply, giving him her hand. There was nothing in the words, 
and yet he felt that he w'as very welcome. For when a wo- 
man really loves, there is about her an atmosphere of softness 
and tender meaning which- cannot be mistaken. - Sometimes 
it is only perceptible to the favored individual himself, but 
more generally is to be discerned by any person of ordinary 
shrewdness. A very short course of observation in general 
society will convince the reader of the justice of this observa- 
tion ; and when once he gets to know the signs of the weath- 
er he will probably light upon more love affairs than were 
ever meant for his investigation. 

This softness, or atmospheric influence, or subdued glow of 
affection radiating from a light within, was clearly enough vis- 
ible in Ida that morning, and certainly it made our friend 
the Colonel unspeakably happy to see it. 

“Are you fond of shooting?” she asked presently. 

“Yes, very, and have been all my life.” 

“Are you a good shot ? ” she asked again. 

“ I call that a rude question,” he answered, smiling. 

“ Yes, it is, but I want to know.” 

“ Well,” said Harold, “ I suppose that I am pretty fair, that 
is, at rough shaoting; I have never had much practice at 
driven birds and that kind of sport.” 

“ I am glad of that.” 

“ Wh3% it does not much matter. One goes out shooting 
for the sport of the thing.” 

“ Yes, I know ; but Mr. Edward Cossey,” and she shrank 
visibly as she uttered the name, “ is coming, and he is a veiy 
good shot, and very conceited about it. I want you to beat 
him if you can ; will you try ? ” 

“Well,” said Harold, “I don’t at all like shooting against 
a man. It is not sportsman-like, you know ; and besides, if 


COLONEL QUAIUTCH, V.C. 131 

Mr. Cossey is a crack shot, I dare say that I shall be no- 
where ; but I will shoot as well as I can.” 

“ Do you know, it is veiy feminine, but I would give any- 
thing to see you beat him,” and she nodded and laughed, 
whereupon Harold Quaritch vowed in his heart that if it in 
him lay he would not disappoint her. 

At that moment Edward Cossey’s fast-trotting horse drew 
up at the door with a prodigious crunching of gravel, and 
Edward himself entered, looking very handsome and rather 
pale. He was admirably dressed — that is to say, his shoot- 
ing clothes were beautifully made and very new-looking, and 
so were his boots, and so was his hat, and so were his ham- 
merless guns, of which he brought a pair. There exists a 
certain class of sportsmen who always appear to have just 
walked out of a sporting tailor’s shop, and to this class Ed- 
ward Cossey belonged. Everything about him was of the 
best and newest and most expensive kind'^ossible ; even his 
guns were just down from Purdey’s, and the best that could 
be had for love or money, having cost exactly a hundred and 
forty guineas the pair. Indeed, he presented a curious con- 
trast to his rival. ‘The colonel had certainly nothing new- 
looking about him — an old tweed coat, an old hat with a 
piece of gut still twined round it, a sadly frayed bag full of 
brown cartridges, and, last of all, an old gun with all the 
brown wore off the barrels, original cost £17 10s. And yet 
there was no possibility of making any mistake as to which of 
the two looked more of a gentleman, or, indeed, more of a 
sportsman. 

Edward Cossey shook hands with Ida, but when the 
Colonel was advancing to give him his hand, he turned and 
spoke to the Squire, who had at length finished his letter, so 
that no greeting passed between them. At the time Harold 
did not know if this move was or was not accidental. 

Presently they started, Edward Cossey attended by his 
man with the second gun. 

“Hullo! Cossey,” sang out the Squire after him, “it isn’t 
much use your bringing two guns for this sort of work. I 
don’t preserve much here, you know, at least not now. You 
will only get a dozen cock pheasants and a few brace of 
partridges.” .. 

“Oh, thank you,” he answered ; “ I always like to have a 
second gun in case I should want it. It’s no trouble, you 
know.” 

“ All right,” said the Squire. “ Ida and I will come down 
with the luncheon to the spinney. Good-by.” 


132 


COLONEL qUARITGH, V.G. 


After crossing the moat, Edward Cossey walked by him- 
self, followed by his man and a very fine retriever, and the 
Colonel talked to George, wlio was informing him that Mr. 
Cossey was a “ pretty shot, he was, but rather snappy over it,” 
till they came to a field of white turnips. 

“ Now, gentlemen, if you please,” said George, “ we will 
walk through these here turnips. I put two coveys of birds 
in here myself, and it’s rare good ‘ lay ’ for them ; so I think 
that we had better see if they will let us come up to them.” 

Accordingly they started down the field, the Colonel on the 
right, George in the middle, and Edward Cossey on the. left. 

Before they had gone ten yards an old Frenchman got up 
in the front of one of the beaters and wheeled round past 
Edward, who cut him over in first-rate style. 

From that one bird the Colonel could see that the man 
was a quick and clever shot. Presently, however, a leash of 
English birds rose rather awkwardly at about forty paces 
straight in front of Edward Cossey, and Harold noticed that 
he left them alone, never attempting to fire at them. The 
fact was that he was one of those shooters who never take a 
hard shot if they can avoid it, being always in terror lest they 
should miss it, and so reduce their average. 

Then George, who was a very fair shot of the ‘Spoking” 
order, fired both barrels and got a bird, and Edward Cossey 
got another. Ifc was not till they were getting to the end of 
the last beat that Harold got a chance of letting off his gun. 
Suddenly, however, a brace of old birds sprang up out of the 
turnips in front of him at about thirty yards, as swiftly as 
though they had been ejected from a mortar, and made off, 
one to the right and one to the left, both of them rising shots. 
He got the right-hand bird, and then, turning, killed the 
other also, when it was more than fifty yards away. 

The Colonel felt satisfied, for the shots were very good. 
Mr. Cossey opened his eyes and wondered if it was a fluke ; 
and George ejaculated, “ Well, that’s a master one.” 

After this they pursued their course, picking up another 
two brace of birds on the way to the outlying cover, a wood 
of about twenty acres, through which they were to brush. 
It was a good holding wood for pheasants, but lay on the 
outside of the Honham estate, where they#were liable to be 
poached by the farmers whose land marched, so George en- 
joined them particularly not to let anything go. 

Into the details of the sport that followed we need not 
enter, beyond saying that the Colonel, to his huge delight, 
never shot better in his life. Indeed, with the exception of 


COLONEL qUARITCII, V.C. 


133 


one rabbit and a ben pheasant that flopped up right beneath 
his feet, he scarcely missed anything, thougli he took tlie 
shots as they came. Edward Cossey also shot well, and with 
one exception missed nothing, but then he never took a 
difficult shot if he could avoid it. The exception was a wood- 
cock which rose in front of George, who was walking down 
an outside belt with the beaters. He had two barrels at it 
and missed it, and on it came among the tree-tops, past where 
Edward Cossey was standing, about half-way down the belt, 
giving him a difficult chance with the first barrel and a clear 
one with the second. Bang ! bang ! and on came the wood- 
cock, flying low, but at tremendous speed, straight at the 
Colonel’s head, a most puzzling shot. However, he fired, and 
to his joy (and what joy is there like to the joy of a sports- 
man who has just killed a woodcock which everybody has 
been popping at ?) down it came with a thump almost at his 
feet. 

This was their last beat before lunch, which was now to be 
seen approaching down a lane in a donkey-cart, convoyed by 
Ida and the Squire. The latter was advancing in stages of 
about ten paces, and at every stage he stopped to utter a 
most fearful roar by way of warning all and sundry that they 
were not to shoot in his direction. Edward gave his gun to 
his bearer and at once walked off to join them, but the 
Colonel went with George to look after two running cocks 
which he had down, for he was an old-fashioned sportsman, 
and hated not picking up his game. After some difficulty 
they found one of the cocks in the hedge-row, -but the other 
they could not find, so ‘reluctantly they gave up the search. 
When they got to the lane they found the luncheon ready, 
while one of the beaters was laying out the game for the 
Squire to inspect. There were fourteen pheasants, four 
brace and a half of partridges, a hare, three rabbits and a 
woodcock. 

“ Hullo !” said the Squire, ‘‘who shot the woodcock?” 

“Well, sir,” said George, “we all had a pull at him, but 
the Colonel wiped our eyes.” 

“Oh, Mr, Cossey,” said Ida, in affected surprise; “why, 
I thought you never missed anything,'' 

“ Everybody misses sometimes,” answered that gentleman, 
looking uncommonly sulliy. “I shall do better this after- 
noon, when it comes to the driven partridges.” 

“ I don’t believe you will,” went on Ida, laughing malicious- 
ly. “ I bet you a pair of gloves that Colonel Quaritch will 
shoot more driven partridges than you do,” 


134 


COLONEL QUARITGH, V.C. 


“Done,” said Edward Cossey, sliarply. 

“Now, do 3^ou hear that. Colonel Quaritch ?” went on Ida. 
“I have bet Mr. Cossey a pair of gloves that you will kill 
more partridges this afternoon than he will, so I hope you 
won’t make me lose them.” 

“Goodness gracious!” said the Colonel, in much alarm. 
“ Why, the last partridge driving that I had was on the slopes 
of some mountains in Afghanistan. I dare say that I shan’t 
hit a haystack. Besides,” he said, with some irritation, “I 
don’t like being set up to shoot against people.” 

“Oh, of course,” said Edward, loftily; “if Colonel Qua- 
ritch does not like to take it up, there’s an end of it.” 

“Well,” said the Colonel, “if you put it in that way I 
don’t mind trying ; but I have only one gun, and you have 
two.” 

“ Oh, that will be all right,” said Ida to the Colonel. 
“You shall have George’s gun ; he never tries to shoot when 
they drive partridges, because he cannot hit them. He goes 
with the beaters. It is a very good gun.” 

The Colonel took up the gun and examined it. It w'as of 
about the same bend and length as his own, but of a better 
quality, having been once the property of James De la Molle. 

“ Yes,” he said ; “ but then I haven’t got a bearer.” 

“ Never mind. I’ll do that ; I know all about it. I alw^ays 
used to hold my brother’s second gun when we drove par- 
tridges, because, he said, I was so much quicker than the men. 
Look,” and she took the gun and rested one knee on the 
turf. “First position, second position, third position. We 
used to have regular drills at it,” and she sighed. 

The Colonel laughed heartily, for it was a curious thing to 
see this stately woman handling a gun with all the skill and 
quickness of a practised shot. Besides, as the bearer idea 
involved a whole afternoon of Ida’s society, he certainly was 
not inclined to negative it. But Edward Cossey did not 
smile ; on the contrary, he positively scowled with jealousy, 
and was about to make some remark w^hen Ida held up her 
finger. 

“Hush!” she said, “here comes my father ” (the Squire 
had been counting the game). “ He hates bets, so you 
mustn’t say anything about our match.” 

Luncheon went off pretty well, though Edw^ard Cossey did 
not contribute much to the general conversation. When it 
was done the Squire announced that he w’as going to walk to 
the other end of the estate, whereon Ida said that she should 
stop and see something of the shooting and the fun began, 


COLONEL qVARITGH, V.C, 


135 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE END OF THE MATCH. 

They began the afternoon with several small drives, but on 
the whole the birds went very badly. They broke back, went 
off to one side or the other, and generally misbehaved them- 
selves. In the first drive the Colonel and Edward Cossey got 
a bird each. In the second drive the latter got three birds, 
firing five shots, and his antagonist only got a hare and a 
pheasant that jumped out of a ditch, neither of which, of 
course, counted anything. Only one brace of birds came his 
way at all, but if the truth must be told, hp was talking to 
Ida at the moment, and did not see them till too late. 

Then came a longer drive when the birds were pretty plen- 
tiful. The Colonel got one, a low-lying Frenchman, which 
he killed as he toppled the fence, and after that for the life 
of him he could not touch a feather. Every sportsman knows 
what a fatal thing it is to begin to miss and then get nervous, 
and that was what happened to the Colonel. Continually 
there came distant cries of Mark ! mark! orcr ” followed 
by the apparition of half a dozen brown balls showing clear 
against the gray autumn sky and sweeping down toward him 
like lightning. Whiz! in front, overhead, and behind ; bang! 
bang ! bang 1 again went the second gun, and they were 
away, vanished, gone, legtving nothing but a memory behind 
them. 

The Colonel swore beneath his breath, and Ida, kneeling at 
his side, groaned audibly ; but it was of no use, and presently 
the drive was done, and there he was, with one wretched 
French partridge to show for it. 

Ida said nothing, but she looked volumes, and if ever a man 
felt humiliated, Harold Quaritch was that man. She had set 
her heart upon his winning the match, and he was making an 
exhibition of himself that might have caused a school-boy to 
blush. 

Only Edward Cossey smiled grimly as he told his bearer to 
give the two and a half-brace which he had shot to George. 

“Last drive this next, gentlemen,” said that universal func- 
tionary, as he surveyed the Colonel’s one Frenchman, and 
then glancing sadly at the telltale pile of empty cartridge 
cases, added, “You’ll have to shoot up, Colonel, this time, if 
you are going to win them gloves for Miss Ida. Mr. Cossey 


136 


COLOHEL qUARlTGII, V.O. 


has knocked np four brace and a half, and you have only got 
a brace. Look you here, sir,” he went on, in a portentous 
whisper, “ keep forrard of them, well forrard, fire ahead, and 
down theyll come. You’re a better shot than he is, long 
way; you could give him ‘birds,’ sir, that you could, and 
beat him.” 

Harold said nothing. He was sorely tempted to make ex- 
cuses as any man would have been, and he might with truth 
have urged that he was not accustomed to partridge driving, 
and that one of the guns was new to him. But he resisted 
manfully and said never a word. 

George placed the two guns, and then went off to join the 
beaters. It was a capital spot for a drive, for on each side 
were young larch plantations, sloping down toward them like 
a V, the guns being at the narrow end, and level with the 
ends of the plantations, which were at this spot about one 
hundred and twenty yards apart. In front was a large 
stretch of open fields, lying in such a fashion that the birds 
were bound to fly straight over the guns, and between the gap 
at the end of the V-shaped covers. 

They had to wait a long while, for the beat was of consid- 
erable extent, and this they did in silence, till presently a 
couple of single birds appeared coming down the wind, for a 
stiffish breeze had sprung up like lightning. One went to the 
left, over Edward Cossey’s head, and he shot it very neatly, 
but the other, catching sight of Harold’s hat beneath the 
fence, which was not a very high one, swerved and crossed an 
almost impossible shot nearer sixty than fifty yards from 
him. 

“ Now,” said Ida, and he fired, and to his joy down came 
the bird with a thud, bounding full two feet into the air 
with the force of its impact, being indeed shot through the 
head. 

“That’s better,” said Ida, as she handed him the second 
gun. 

Another moment and a covey came over, high up. He 
fired both barrels and got a right and left, and snatching the 
second gun sent another barrel after them, hitting a third 
bird, which did not fall. And then a noble enthusiasm and 
certainty possessed him, and he knew that he should miss no 
more. Nor did he. With two almost impossible exceptions 
he dropped every bird that drive. But his crowning glory, a 
thing whereof he still often dreams, was yet lo come. 

He had killed four brace of partridge and fired twelve 
times, when at last the beaters made their appearance about 


COLONEL qVARITGII, V.G. 137 

two hundred yards away at the f urther end of rather dirty 
barley stubble. 

“I think that is the lot,” he said. “ Fm afraid that you 
have lost your gloves, Ida.” 

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when there was 
a yell of “mark!” and a strong covey of birds appeared 
swooping down the, wind right on to him. 

On they came, scattered and rather “ stringy,” and Harold 
gripped his gun and drew a deep breath, while Ida, kneeling 
at his side, her lips apart and her beautiful eyes wide open, 
watched their advent through a space in the hedge. Lovely 
enough she looked to charm the heart out of any man, if a 
man out partridge driving could descend to such frivolity, 
which we hold to be impossible. 

Now is the moment. The leading brace are something 
over fifty yards away, and he knows fuU well that if there is 
to be a chance left for the second gun he must shoot before 
they are five yards nearer. 

“ Bang 1 ” down comes the old cock bird ; “ bang ! ” and his 
mate follows him, falling with a smash into the fence. 

Quick as light Ida takes the empty gun with one hand 
and passes him the cocked and loaded one with the other. 
“ Bang ! ” Another bird topples head-first out of the thinned 
covey. They are nearly sixty yards away now. “Bang!” 
again, and oh — joy and wonder ! — the last bird turns right 
over backward, and falls dead as a stone some seventy paces 
from the muzzle of the gun. 

He had killed four birds out of a single driven covey, 
which, as shooters well b;now, is a feat not often done even by 
the best driving shots. 

“Bravo !” said Ida ; “I was sure that you could shoot if 
you chose.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “ it was pretty good work ;” and he 
commenced collecting the birds, for % this time the beaters 
were across the field. They were all dead, not a runner in 
the lot, and there were exactly six brace of them. Just as he 
picked up the last, George arrived, followed by Edward Cos- 
sey. 

“Well, I never,” said the former, while something resem- 
bling a smile stole over his melancholy countenance ; “ that’s 
the masterest bit of shooting that ever I did see. Lord Wal- 
singham couldn’t beat that himself — fourteen shots and twelve 
birds picked up. Why,” and he turned to Edward, “ bless 
me, sir, if I don’t believe the Colonel has won them gloves 
for Miss Ida after all. Let’s see, sir ; you got two brace this 


138 


COLONEL qVARITGH, V.G. 


last drive and one the first, and a leash the second, and two 
brace and a half the third — six and a half brace in all. And 
the Colonel, yes, he has seven brace — one bird to the good.” 

‘‘Tliere, Mr. Co.ssey,” said Ida, smiling sweetly, “I have 
won my gloves. Mind you don’t forget to pay them.” 

“Oh, I will not forget, Miss De la Molle,” said h-', smiling 
also, but not too prettily. 

“I sup230se,” he said, addressing the Colonel, “ that that 
last covey twisted up, and j^ou browned them.” 

“No,” he answered quietly ; “ all four were clear shots.” 

Mr. Cossey smiled again an incredulous smile, which some- 
how sent Harold Quaritch’s blood leaping through his veins 
more quickly than was good for him, and turned away to 
hide his vexation. He would rather have lost a thousand 
pounds than that his adversary should have got that extra 
bird, for not only was he a jealous shot, but he knew j^er- 
fectly well that Ida was anxious that he should lose, and de- 
sired above all things to see him humiliated. And then he, 
the smartest shot within ten miles round, to be beaten by a 
middle-aged soldier shooting with a strange gun, and totally 
unaccustomed to driving ! Why, the story would be told 
over the county. His anger was so great when he thought 
of it, that, afraid of making himself ridiculous, he set off with 
his bearer toward the castle without another word, leaving 
the others to follow. 

Ida looked after him and smiled. “He is so conceited,” 
she said, “ he cannot bear to be beaten at anything.” 

“I think that you are rather hard on him,” said the 
Colonel, for the joke had an unpleasant side which jarred on 
him. 

“ At any rate,” she answered, with a little stamp, “it is not 
for you to say so. If you disliked him as much as I do you 
would be hard on him too. Besides, I dare say that his turn 
is coming.” 

The Colonel, winced, as well he might, but looking at her 
handsome face, set just now like steel, at the thought of 
what the future might bring forth, he reflected that if Edward 
Cossey’s turn did come, he was by no means sure that the ulti- 
mate triumph would rest with him. Ida De la Molle, to what- 
ever extent her sense of honor and money indebtedness might 
carry her, was no butterfly to be broken on a wheel, but a 
woman whose dislike and anger or, worse still, whose cold 
unvarying disdain, was a thing from which the boldest-heart- 
ed man might shrink aghast. 

Nothing more was said on the subject, and they began to 


COLONEL qUAlUTCH, V.O. 


189 


Ulk, though somewhat constrainedly, about indifferent mat- 
ters. They were both aware that it was a farce, and that they 
were playing a part, for beneath the external ice of formali- 
ties the river of their devotion ran whither they knew not. 
All that had been made clear a few nights back ; but what 
will you have ? Necessity overriding their desires compelled 
them along the path of self-denial, and, like wise folk, they 
recognized the fact, for there is nothing more painful in the 
world than the outburst of hopeless passion. 

And so they talked about painting and shooting and what 
not till they reached the gray old castle towers. Here Harold 
wanted to bid her good-by, but she persuaded him to come 
in and have some tea, saying that her father would like to 
say good-night to him. 

Accordingly he went into the vestibule, where there was a 
light — for it was getting dusk — and here he found the Squire 
and Mr. Cossey. As soon as he entered, Edw^ard Cossey 
rose, said good-night to the Squire and Ida, and then passed 
toward the door, where the Colonel was standing rubbing the 
mud off his shooting boots. As he came, Harold, being 
slightly ashamed of the business of the shooting match, and 
very sorry to have humiliated a man who prided himself 
so much upon his skill in a particular branch of sport, held 
out his hand, and said, in a friendly tone : 

‘^Good-night, Mr. Cossey. Next time that we are out shoot- 
ing together I expect I shall be nowhere. It was an awful 
fluke of mine killing those four birds.” 

But Edward Cossey took no notice of the friendly words 
or the outstretched hand, but came straight on as though he 
intended to walk past him. 

The Colonel was- wondering what it was best to do, for it 
was impossible to mistake the meaning of the oversight, 
when the Squire, who was sometimes very quick to notice 
things, spoke in a loud and decided tone. 

“ Mr. Cossey,” he said, “ Colonel Quaritch is offering you 
his hand.” 

“I observe that he is,” he answered, setting his handsome 
face, “ but I do not wish to take Colonel Quaritch’s hand.” 

Then came a moment’s silence, which the Squire again 
broke. 

“ When a gentleman in my house refuses to take the hand 
of another gentleman,” he said, very quietly, “I think that I 
have a right to ask the reason for his conduct, which, unless 
that reason is a very sufficient one, is almost as much a slight 
upon me as upon him. 


140 


COLONEL QILMUTOJI. V.C. 


“■ I think that Colonel Quaritch must know the reason, and 
will not press me to explain,’" said Edward Oossey. 

“ I know of no reason,” replied the Colonel, sternly “ un- 
less, indeed, it is that I have been so unfortunate as to get the 
best of Mr. Cossey in a friendly shooting match.” 

Colonel Quaritch must know well that such is not the rea- 
son to which I allude,” said Edward. “If he consults his 
conscience he will probably discover a better one.” 

Ida and her father looked at each other in surprise, while 
the Colonel, by a half-in voluntary movement, stepped between 
his accuser and the door ; and Ida noticed that his face was 
white with anger. 

“ You have made a very serious implication against me, 
Mr. Cossey,” he said, in a cold, clear voice. “ Before you 
leave this room you will be so good as to explain it in the 
presence of those before whom it has been made.” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it,” he answered, with something 
like a sneer. “ The reason why I refuse to take your hand. 
Colonel Quaritch, is that you have been guilty of conduct 
which proves to me that you are not a gentleman, and there- 
fore not a person with whom I desire to be on friendly terms. 
Shall I go on?” 

“ Most certainly you will go on,” answered the Colonel. 

“Very well. The conduct to which I refer is that you 
were once engaged to my aunt, Julia Heston ; that within 
three days of the time of the marriage you deserted and jilted 
her in a most cruel way, as a consequence of which she went 
mad, and is to this moment an inmate of an asylum.” 

Ida gave an exclamation of astonishment, and the Colonel 
started and colored up, while the Squire, looking at him curi- 
ously, waited to hear what he had to say. 

“ It is perfectly true, Mr. Cossey,” he answered, “ that I was 
engaged twenty years ago to be married to Miss Julia Heston, 
though I now for the first time learn that she was your aunt. 
It is also quite true that that engagement was broken off, 
under most painful circumstances, within three days of the 
time fixed for the marriage. What those circumstances were 
I am not at liberty to say, for the simple reason that I gave 
my word not to do so ; but this I will say, that they were not 
to my discredit, though you may not be aware of that fact. 
But as you are one of the family, Mr. Cossey, my tongue is 
not tied, and I will do myself the honor of calling upon you 
to-morrow and explaining them to you. After that,” he added 
significantly, “I shall require you to apologize to me as pub- 
licly as you have accused me,” 


COLONEL qUARlTCH, V.C. 


141 


‘‘ You may require, but whether I shall comply is another 
matter,” said Edward Cossey, and he passed out. 

“lam very sorry, Mr. De la Molle,” said the Colonel, as 
soon as he had gone, “ more sorry than I can say, that I 
should have been the cause of this most unpleasant scene, I 
also feel that I am placed in a very false position, and until I 
produce Mr. Cossey’s written apology, that position must to 
some extent continue. If I fail to obtain that apology, I shall 
have to consider what course to take. In the meanwhile I 
can only ask you to suspend your judgment,” 


CHAPTER XXm, 

THE BLOW FALLS. 

On the following morning, about ten o’clook, while Edward 
Cossey was still at breakfast, a dog-cart drew up at his door, 
and out of it stepped Colonel Quaritch. 

“ Now for the row,” said he to himself. “I hope that the 
governor was right in his tale, that's all Perhaps it would 
have been wiser to say nothing till I had made more sure,” 
and he poured out some more tea a little nervously, for in the 
Colonel he had, he felt, an adversary not to be despised. 

Presently the door opened, and “ Colonel Quaritch ” was 
announced. He rose and bowed a salutation, which the 
Colonel, whose face bore a particularly grim expression, did 
not return. 

“ Will you take a chair ? ” he said, as soon as the servant 
had left, and without speaking the Colonel took one, and 
presently began the conversation. 

“ Last night, Mr. Cossey,” he said, “ you thought proper 
to publicly bring a charge against me, which if it were true 
w^ould go a long way toward showing that I was not a fit 
person to associate with those before whom it was brought.” 

“ Yes,” said Edward, coolly. 

“Before making any remarks on your conduct in bringing 
such a charge, which I give you credit for believing to be true, 
I propose to show to you that it is a false charge,” went on 
the Colonel, quietly. “ The story is a very simple one, and 
so sad that nothing short of necessity would force me to tell 
it. I was, when quite young, engaged to your aunt. Miss 
Heston, to whom I was much attached, and who was then 


142 


COLONEL qUARITCB, V.G. 

twenty years of age, and though I had little besides my pro- 
fession, she had some money, and we were going to be 
married. The circumstances under which the marriage was 
broken off were as follows ; Three days before the wedding 
was to take place I went unexpectedly to the house, and was 
told by the servant that Miss Heston was upstairs in her 
sitting"-room. I went upstairs to the room, which I knew 
well, knocked, and got no answer. Then I walked into the 
room, and this is what I saw. Your aunt was lying on the 
sofa in her wedding dress (that is, in half of it, for she had 
only the skirt on), as I first thought, asleep. I went up to 
her, and saw that by her side was a brandy bottle, half 
empty. In her hand also was a glass containing raw brandy. 
While I was wondering what it could mean, she woke up, got 
off the sofa, and began to stagger round the room, and I saw 
that she was intoxicated.” 

“ It’s a lie,” said Edward, excitedly. 

“ Be careful what you say, sir,” answered the Colonel, “ and 
wait to say it till I have done.” 

“ As soon as I realized what was the matter, I left the room 
again, and going down to your grandfather’s study, where he 
was engaged in writing a sermon, I asked him to come up- 
stairs, as I was afraid that his daughter was not well. He 
came and saw, and the sight threw him off his balance, for 
he broke out into a torrent of explanations and excuses, from 
which in time I extracted the following facts : It appeared 
that ever since she was a child Miss Heston had been addicted 
to drinking fits, and that it was on account of this constitu- 
tional weakness, which was of course concealed from me, that 
she had been allowed to engage herself to a penniless 
subaltern. It appeared, too, that the habit was hereditary, 
for her mother had died from the effects of drink, and one 
of her aunts had become mad from it. 

“ I went away and thought the matter over, and came to 
the conclusion that under these circumstances it would be 
impossible for me, much as I was attached to her, to marry 
her, because even if I was willing to do so, I had no right to 
run the risk of bringing children into the world who might 
inherit the curse. Having come to this determination, which 
it cost me much to do, I wi’ote and communicated it to your 
grandfather, and the marriage was broken off.” 

“ I do not believe it, I do not believe a word of it,” said 
Edward, jumping up. “You jilted her and drove her mad, 
and now you are trying to shelter yourself behind a tissue of 
falsehoods.” 


COLONEL qUARITCE, V.C. 


143 


“Are you acquainted with your grandfather’s handwriting ?” 
asked the Colonel, quietly. 

“Yes.” 

“Is that it?” he went on, producing a yellow-looking 
letter and showing it to him. 

“I believe so — at least it looks like it.” 

“ Then read the letter.” 

Edward obeyed. It was one written in answer to that of 
Harold Quaritch to his betrothed’s father, and admitted in 
the clearest terms the justice of the step that he had taken. 
Further, it begged him, for the sake of Julia and the family at 
large, never to mention the cause of his defection to any one 
outside the family. 

“ Are you satisfied, Mr. Cossey ? I have other letters if you 
wish to see them.” ^ 

Edward made no reply, and the Colonel went on : “I gave 
the promise that your grandfather asked for, and in spite of 
the remarks that were freely made upon my behavior, I kept 
it, as it was my duty to do. You, Mr. Cossey, are the first 
person to whom the story has been told. And now that you 
have thought fit to make accusations against me which are 
without foundation, I must ask you to retract them as fully 
as you made them. I have prepared a letter which you will 
be so good as to sign,” and he handed him a note addressed 
to the Squire. It ran : 

“ Dear Mr. De la Molle, — I beg, in the fullest and most 
ample manner possible, to retract the charges which I made 
yesterday evening against Colonel Quaritch, in the presence 
of yourself and Miss De la Molle. I find that those charges 
were unfounded, and I hereby apologize to Colonel Quaritch 
for having made them.” 

“And supposing that I refuse to sign?” said Edward, 
sulkily. 

“ I do not think,” answered the Colonel, “ that you will 
refuse.” 

Edward looked at Colonel Quaritch, and the Colonel looked 
at Edward. 

“ Well,” said the Colonel, “ please understand that I mean 
you should sign that letter, and, indeed, seeing how abso- 
lutely you are in the wrong, I do not think that you can hesi- 
tate to do so.” 

Then, very slowly and unwillingly, Edward Cossey took up 
a pen, afiixed his signature to the letter, blotted, and pushed 
it from him. 


COLONEL qUARITOH, V.C, 


144 

The Colonel folded it up, placed it in an envelope which he 
had ready, and put it in his pocket. 

“ Now, Mr. Cossey,”he said, “ I will wish you good-morning. 
Another time I should recommend you to be more careful, 
both in the facts and the manner of your accusations,” and 
with a slight bow he left the room. 

“Curse the fellow,” thought Edward to himself, as the 
front door closed, “he had me there — I was forced to sign. 
Well, I will be even with him about Ida, at any rate. I will 
propose to her this very day, Belle or no Belle, and if she 
won’t have me I will call the money in and smash the whole 
thing up,” and his handsome face bore a very evil look as he 
thought it. 

That very afternoon he started, in accordance with this de- 
sign, to pay a visit at the castle. The Squire was out, but 
Miss De la Molle was at home, the servant said, and accord- 
ingly he was ushered into the drawing-room, where Ida was 
working, for it was a wet and windy afternoon. 

She rose to greet him coldly enough, and he sat down, and 
then came a pause, which she did not seem inclined to break. 

At last he spoke. “ Did the Squire get my letter. Miss De 
la Molle ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes,” she answered, rather icily. “ Colonel Quaritch sent 
it UJD.” 

“I am very sorry,” he added, confusedly, “that I should 
have put myself in such a false position. I hope that you will 
give me credit for having believed my accusation when I made 
it.” 

“ Such accusations should not be lightly made, Mr. Cossey,” 
was her answer, and, as though to turn the subject, she rose 
and rang the bell for tea. 

It came, and the bustle connected with it prevented any 
further conversation for a while. At length, however, it sub- 
sided, and once more Edward found himself alone with Ida. 
He looked at her and felt afraid. The woman was of a dif- 
ferent clay to himself, and he knew it ; he loved her, but he 
did not understand her in the least. However, if the thing 
was to be done at all, it must be done now, so, with a des- 
perate effort, he screwed himself up to the point. 

“ Miss De la Molle,” he said, and Ida, knowing full surely 
what was coming, felt her heart jump within her bosom and 
then stand still. 

. “Miss De la Molle,” he went on, perhaps you will remem- 
ber a conversation that we had some weeks ago in the con^ 
servatory?” 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


145 


“Yes/’ slie said, “I remember — about the money.” 

“About the money and other things,” he said, gathering 
courage. “ I hinted to you then that I hoped in certain con- 
tingencies to be allowed to make my addresses to you, and I 
think that you understood me.” 

“ I understood you perfectly,” answered Ida, her pale face 
set like ice, “ and I gave you to understand that in the event 
of your lending my father the money, I should hold myself 
bound to — to listen to what you had to say.” 

“Oh, curse the money ! ” broke in Edward. “It is not a 
question of money with me, Ida, it is not indeed. I love you 
with all my heart. I have loved you ever since I saw you. It 
was because I was jealous of him that I made a fool of myself 
last night with Colonel Quaritch. I should have asked you 
to marry me long ago only there were obstacles in the way. I 
love you, Ida ; there never was a woman like you — never.” 

She listened with the same set face. Obviously he was in 
earnest, but his earnestness did not move her ; it scarcely 
even flattered her pride. She disliked the man intensely, and 
nothing that he could say or do would lessen that dislike by 
one jot — probably, indeed, it would only intensify it. 

Presently he stopped and stood beside her, his breast heav- 
ing and his face broken with emotion, and tried to take her 
hand. 

She withdrew it sharply, for his touch was unpleasant to 
her. 

“ I do not think that there is any need for all this,” she said, 
coldly. “I gave a conditional promise. You have fulfilled 
your share of the bargain, and I am prepared to fulfil mine in 
due course.” 

So far as her words went, Edward could find no fault with 
their meaning, and yet he felt more like a man who has been 
abruptly and finally refused than one declared chosen. He 
stood still and looked at her. 

“ I think it right to tell you, however,” she went on, in the 
same measured tones, “ that if I marry you it will be from 
motives of duty and not from motives of affection. I have no 
love to give you, and I do not wish for yours. I do not know 
if you will be satisfied with this. If you are not, you had 
better give up the idea ; ” and she for the first time looked up 
at him with more anxiety in her face than she would have 
cared to show. 

But if she hoped that her coldness would repel him, she 
was destined to be disappointed. On the contrary, like water 
thrown on burning oil, it only inflamed him the more. 

10 


146 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 

“ The love will come, Ida,” he said, and once more he tried 
to take her hand. 

“No, Mr. Cossey,” she said, in a voice that checked him. 
“ I am sorry to have to speak so plainly, but till I marry I am 
my own mistress. Pray understand me.” 

As you like,” he said, drawing back from her sulkily. “I 
am so fond of you that I will marry you on any terms, and 
that is the truth. I have one thing to ask of you, Ida, and 
that is that you will keep our engagement secret for the pres- 
ent, and get your father (I suppose I must speak .to him) to 
do the same. I have reasons,” he went on, by way of expla- 
nation, “ for not wishing it to become known.” 

“ I do not see why I should keep it secret,” she said, “ but 
it does not matter to me.” 

“ The fact is,” he explained, “ my father is a very curious 
man, and I doubt if he would like my engagement, because he 
thinks I ought to marry a great deal of money.” 

“ Oh, indeed,” answered Ida. She had believed, as was in- 
deed the case, that there were other reasons, not unconnected 
with Mrs. Quest, on account of which he was anxious to keep 
the engagement secret. “ By the way,” she went on, “ I am 
sorry to have to talk of business, but this is a business mat- 
ter, is it not ? I suppose it is understood that, in the event 
of our marriage, the mortgage you hold over this place will 
not be enforced against my father.” 

“Of course not,” he answered. “Look here, Ida, I will 
give you those mortgage bonds as a wedding present, and you 
can put them in the fire, and I will make a good settlement 
on you.” 

“ Thank you,” she said, “but I do not require any settle- 
ment on myself ; I had rather none was made ; but I consent 
to the engagement only on the express condition that the 
mortgages shall be cancelled before marriage, and as the 
property will ultimately come to me, this is not much to ask. 
And now one more thing, Mr. Cossey ; I should like to know 
when you would wish this marriage to take place ; not at 
once, I presume.” 

“ I should wish it to take place to-morrow,” he said, with 
an attempt at a laugh; “but I suppose that between one 
thing and another it can’t come off at once. Shall we say 
this time six months ? — that will be in May.” 

“Very good,” said Ida ; “this day six months I shall be pre- 
pared to become your wife, Mr. Cossey. I believe it is,” she 
added, with a flash of bitter sarcasm, “ the time usually al- 
lowed for the redemption of a mortgage.” 


COLONEL qUARTTCE, V.G, 


147 


“ You say very hard things,” he answered, wincing. 

“Do I? I dare say. I am hard by nature. I wonder 
that you can wish to marry me.” 

“I wish it beyond everything in the world,” he answered, 
earnestly. “You can never know how much. By the way, 
I know I was foolish about Colonel Quaritch ; but, Ida, I can- 
not bear to see that man near you. I hope you will drop his 
acquaintance as much as possible now.” 

Once more Ida’s face set like a flint. “I am not your wife 
yet, Mr. Cossey,” she said ; “ when I am you will have a right 
to dictate to me as to whom I shall associate with. At pres- 
ent you have no such right, and if it pleases me to associate 
with Colonel Quaritch, I shall do so. If you disapprove of my 
conduct the remedy is simple — you can break off the engage- 
ment.” 

He rose absolutely crushed,* for Ida was by far the stronger 
of the two, and, besides, his jDassion gave her an unfair ad- 
vantage over him. Without attempting any reply he held out 
his hand and said good-night, for he was afraid to attempt 
any demonstration of affection, adding that he would come 
to see her father in the morning. 

She touched his outstretched hand with her fingers, and 
then, fearing lest he should change his mind, promptly rang 
the bell. 

In another minute the door had closed behind him and she 
was left alone. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

GOOD-BY, MY DEAE, GOOD-BY. 

When Edward Cosse}^ had gone, Ida rose and put her 
hands to her head. So the blow had fallen and the deed was 
done, and she was engaged to be married to Edward Cossey. 
And Harold Quaritch ! Well, there must be an end to that. 
It was hard too — only a woman could know how hard. Ida 
was not a person with a long record of love affairs. Once, 
when she was twenty, she had had a proposal which she had 
refused, and that was all. So it happened that when she be- 
came attached to Colonel Quaritch she had found her heart 
for the first time, and for a woman, somewhat late in life. 
Consequently her feelings were all the more profound, and 
SO; indeed, was her grief at being forced not only to put it 


148 


COLONEL qUAEITOHy V.G. 


away, but to give herself to another man who was not agree- 
able to her. She was not a violent or ill-regulated woman 
like Mrs. Quest. She looked facts in the face, recognized 
their meaning, and bowed before their inexorable logic. It 
seemed to her almost impossible that she could hope to avoid 
this marriage, and if that proved to be so, she might be re- 
lied upon to make the best of it. Scandal would, under any 
circumstances, never find a word to say against Ida, for she 
was not a person who would attempt to console herself for an 
unhappy marriage. But it was bitter, bitter as gall, to be 
thus forced to turn aside from her happiness — for she well 
knew that with Harold Quaritch her life would be very happy 
— and fit her shoulders to this heavy yoke. Well, she had 
saved the place to her father by it, and also to her descend- 
ants if she had any, and that was all that could be said for it. 

She thought and thought, wishing in the bitterness of her 
heart that she had never been born to come to such a heavy 
day, till at last she could think no more. The air of the room 
seemed to stifle her, though it was by no means overheated. 
She went to the window and looked out. It was a wild, wet 
evening, and the wind was driving the rain before it in sheets. 
In the west the lurid light of the sinking sun stained the 
clouds blood red, and broke in flying arrows of ominous 
light upon the driving storms. 

But bad as the weather was it attracted Ida. When the 
heart is heavy and torn by conflicting passions, it seems to 
answer to the calling of the storm, and to long to lose its 
petty troubling in the turmoil of the rushing world. Nature 
has many moods of which our own are but the echo and re- 
flection, and she can be companionable when all human sym- 
pathy must fail. For she is our mother, from whom we come, 
to whom we go, and her arms are ever opened to clasp the chil- 
dren who can hear her voices. Drawn thereto by an impulse 
which she could not have analyzed, Ida went upstairs, put on 
a thick pair of boots, a mackintosh, and an old hat, and sal- 
lied out into the wind and wet. It was blowing big guns, 
and as the rain whirled down, the drops struck upon her face 
like spray. She crossed the bridge, and went out into the 
park-land beyond. The air was full of dead leaves, and the 
grass rustled with them, for this was the first wind since the 
frost. The great boughs of the oaks rattled and groaned 
above her, and high overhead, among the sullen clouds, a 
flight of wind-tossed rooks were being blown this way and that. 

Ida bent her tall frame against the rain and gale, and fought 
her way through it. At first she had no clear idea as to where 


(.'OLONJ^J/. Alii T(:l{, V.C. 


145 > 


she was going, but gradually, pei-haps from custom, she took 
the path that ran across the fields to Honham Church. It was 
a beautiful old church, and had originally been built by the 
Boissey family, and enlarged (particularly as regards the 
tower, which was one of the finest in the country) by the 
widow of one of the De la Molles, whose husband had fallen 
at Agincourt, as a memorial forever. There, upon the porch, 
w^ere carved the “ hawks ” of the De la Molles, wreathed 
round with palms of victory ; and there, too within the chan- 
cel, hung the warrior’s helmet and his dinted shield. 

Nor was he alone, for all around lay the dust of the illus- 
trious dead, come, after the toil and struggle of their stormy 
lives, to rest within the walls of the old church. Some of 
them had monuments of alabaster, where they lay in effigy, 
their heads pillowed upon that of a conquered Saracen; some 
had monuments of oak and brass ; and some had no monu- 
ments at all, for the Puritans had ruthlessly destroyed them. 
But they were nearly all there, some twenty generations of 
the bearers of an ancient name, for even those of them who 
had perished on the scaffold had been borne here for burial. 
The whole place was eloquent of the dead and of the mourn- 
ful lesson of mortality. From century to century the bearers 
of that name had walked in these fields, and lived in yonder 
castle, and looked upon the familiar swell of yonder ground, 
and the silver flash of yonder river, and now their dust was 
gathered here, and all the turmoil of their lives was lost in 
Ahe silence of their narrow 'tomb. 

Ida loved the spot, hallowed to her not only by the altar of 
her faith, but the human associations that clung around and 
clothed it as the ivy clothed its walls. Here she had been 
christened, and here among her ancestors she hoped to be 
buried also. Here as a girl she used to creep in awed silence 
with her brother James, and look through the window, when 
the full-moon was up, at the white figures stretched in their 
marble silence within. Here, too, she had sat Sunday after 
Sunday for more than twenty years, and stared at the quaint 
Latin inscriptions cut on marble slabs, which recorded the 
almost superhuman virtues of departed De la Molles of the 
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, her own immediate an- 
cestors. The place was familiar to her whole life ; she had 
scarcely a recollection with which it was not in some way 
connected. It was not wonderful, therefore, that she loved 
it, and that in the trouble of her mind her feet shaped their 
course toward it. 

Presently she was there in the churchyard, and taking her 




150 


COLONEL qCAHITGH, V.O. 


stand under the shelter of a line of Scotch firs, through which 
the gale sobbed and sang, leant against a side gate and looked. 
The scene was desolate enough ; the rain dropped from the 
roof on to the sodden graves beneath, and ran in thin sheets 
down the flint facing of the tower ; the dead leaves whirled 
and rattled in and about the empty porch, and over all shot 
one red and angry arrow from the sinking sun. She stood 
in the wind and rain, and gazed at the old church that had 
seen the end of so many sorrows more bitter than her own, 
and the wreck of so many summers, till the darkness began 
to close round her like a pall, while the wind sung the re- 
quiem of her hopes. She was not of a desponding or pessi- 
mistic character, but in that bitter hour she found it in her 
heart to wish, as most people have done at one time or an- 
other in their lives, that the tragedy were over and the cur- 
tain had fallen, and that she lay beneath those dripping sods, 
without sight or hearing, without hope or dread. It seemed 
to her that the Hereafter must indeed be terrible if it out- 
weighs the sorrows of the Here. 

And there, poor woman, she thought of the long years be- 
tween her and rest, and leaning her head against the gate- 
post, she began to cry bitterly in the gloom. 

Presently, she stopped crying with a start and looked up, 
for she felt that she was no longer alone. Her instincts had 
not deceived her, for there, not more than two paces from her, 
in the shadow of the fir-trees, was the figure of a man. Just 
then he took a step to the left, which brought his figure 
against the sky, and Ida’s heart stood still, for she saw who 
it was now. It was Harold Quaritch, the man over whose 
loss she had been weeping. 

“It’s deuced odd,” she heard him say, for she was to leeward 
of him, “ but I could have sworn , that I heard somebody sob- 
bing ; I suppose it was the wind.” 

Ida’s first idea was flight, and she made a movement for 
that purpose, and in doing so tripped over a stick and nearly 
fell. 

In a minute he was by her side. She was caught, and per- 
haps she was not altogether sorry, especially as she had tried 
to get away. 

“ Who is it ? what’s the matter ? ” said the Colonel, lighting 
a fusee under her nose. It was one of those flaming fusees, 
and burnt with a blue light, showing Ida’s tall figure and her 
beautiful face all stained with grief and tears, her wet mack- 
intosh, and the gatepost against which she had been leaning 
— everything. 


COLONEL qUABITCH, V.C. 151 

. “ Why, Ida,” he said, in amaze, “ what are you doing here 

— crying too ? ” 

“I’m not crying,” she said, with a sob ; “it’s the rain has 
made my face wet.” 

J list then the light burnt out and he dropped it. 

“What is it, dear, what is it?” he said, in great distress, 
for the sight of her alone in the wet and dark, in tears, moved 
him beyond himself, and indeed he would have been no man 
if it had not. 

She tried to answer, but, poor thing, she could not, and in 
another minute, to tell the honest truth, she had exchanged 
the gatepost for Harold’s broad shoulder, and w^as finishing 
her “cry” there. 

Now to see a young and pretty woman weeping (more es- 
pecially if she happens to be weeping in your arms) is a very 
trying thing. It is trying even if you don’t happen to be in 
love with her at all. But if you are in love with her, however 
little, it is dreadful ; whereas if, as in the present case, you 
happen to worship her — more, perhaps, than it is good to 
worship any fallible human creature — then the sight is posi- 
tively overpowering. And so, indeed, it proved in the pres- 
ent instance. The Colonel could not bear it,%ut lifting her 
head from his shoulder, he kissed her sweet face again and 
again. Now nature has generally a remedy for most ills if 
only the physician knows where to look for it, and there is no 
doubt that this sort of treatment has before now proved efifi- 
cacious in many similar cases. At any rate, it answered here, 
for presently Ida grew quieter. 

“ Don’t,” she said, feebly — a phrase common to the sex in 
such circumstances from duchesses to milkmaids, and one 
full of human nature. 

“ What is it, darling ?” he said. “ What is the matter ?” 

“ Leave go of me. I will tell you,” she answered. 

He obeyed, though with some unwillingness, for the situa- 
tion was not without its charms. 

She hunted for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes, and 
then at last she spoke. 

“ I am engaged to be married,” she said, in a low voice, 
“ to Mr. Cossey.” 

Then, for about the first time in his life, Harold Quaritch 
swore violently in the presence of a lady. 

“ Oh, it all !” he said. 

She took no notice of the strength of the language ; per- 
haps, indeed, she re-echoed it in some feminine equivalent. 

“ It is true,” she said, with a sigh, “ I knew that it would 


152 


aOLOl^lCL qUxilUTaH, V.O. 


come — those dreadful things alwaj's do— and it was not my 
fault ; I am sure that you will always remember that I had 
to do it ; he advanced the money on the express condition, 
and even if I could pay back the money, I suppose that I 
should be bound to carry out the bargain. It is not the 
money that he wants, but his bond.” 

“ Curse him for an infernal Shylock !” said Harold again, 
and he groaned in his bitterness and jealousy. 

“ Is there nothing to be done ?” he asked, presently, in a 
harsh voice, for he was very hard hit. 

‘‘Nothing,” she answered, sadly. “I do not see what can 
help us, unless the man died,” she said ; “ and that is not 
likely. Harold,” she went on, addressing him for the first 
time in her life by his Christian name, for she felt that after 
crying upon a man’s shoulder it is ridiculous to scruple 
about calling him by his name — “Harold, there is no help for 
it. I did it myself, remember, because, as I told you, I do 
not think that any one woman has a right to place her in- 
dividual happiness before the welfare of her family. And I 
am only sorry,” she added, her voice breaking a little, “ that 
what I have done should bring suffering upon you.” 

He groaned again, but said nothing. 

“ We must try to forget,” she w'ent on, wildly. “ Oh, no, no ! 
I know that it is not possible that we should forget. You 
won’t forget me, Harold, wdll you ? And though it must be 
all over between us — we must never speak like this again, 
never — you will always know that I have not forgotten you, 
will you not, but that I think of you always ? ” 

“ There is no fear of my forgetting,” he said ; “and I am 
selfish enough to hope that you will think of me at times, 
dear.” 

“Yes, indeed I will. We all have our burdens to bear. 
It is a hard world, and we must bear them. And it will all 
be the same in the end, in just a few years. I dare say these 
dead people here have felt the same, and how quiet they are ! 
And perhaps they may be something beyond, where things 
are not so. Who can say ? You won’t go away from this 
place, Harold, will you ? Not until I am married, at any rate ; 
perhaps you had better go then. Say that you won’t go till 
then, and you will let me see you sometimes ; it is such a 
comfort to see you.” 

“I should have gone, certainly,” he said — “to New Zea- 
land, probably ; but if you wish it I will stop for the present.” 

“Thank you; and now good-by, my dear, good-by. No, 
don’t come with me ; I can find my own way home. And 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V,0. 


153 


now why do you wait ? Good-by, good-by forever in this 
way. Yes, kiss me once, and swear that you will never for- 
get me. Marry if you wish to ; but don’t forget me, Harold. 
Forgive me for speaking so plainly ; but I speak as one about 
to die to you, and I wish things to be clear.” 

“ I shall never marry, and I shall never forget you,” he 
answered. “ Good-by, my love, good-by.” 

In another minute she had vanished into the storm and 
rain, out of his sight and out of his life, but not out of his 
heart. 

And he, too, turned and went his way into the wild and 
lonely night. 

An hour afterward, Ida came down into the drawing-room 
dressed for dinner, looking rather pale but otherwise quite 
herself. Presently the old Squire arrived. He had been at- 
tending a magistrates’ meeting in a neighboring town, and 
had only just got home. 

“ Why, Ida,” he said, “ I could not find you anywhere. I 
met George as I was driving from Boisingham, and he told 
me that he saw you walking through the park.” 

“ Did he,” she answered, indifferently. “Yes, I have been 
out. It was so stuffy in doors. Father,” she went on, with 
a change of tone, “ I have something to tell you. I am en- 
gaged to be married.” 

He looked at her curiously, and then said, quietly — the 
Squire was always quiet in any matter of real emergency : 
“Indeed, my dear. That is a serious matter. However, 
speaking off-hand, I think that, not withstanding the disparity 
of age, Quaritch ” 

“No, no,” she said, wincing visibly, “ I am not engaged to 
Colonel Quaritch ; I am engaged to Mr. Cossey.” 

“ Oh,” he said — “ oh, indeed ! I thought from what I saw 
that — that ” 

At this moment the servant announced dinner. 

“Well, never mind about it now, father,” she said ; “I am 
tired, and want my dinner. Mr. Cossey is coming to see you 
to-morrow, and we can talk about it afterward.” 

And though the Squire thought about it a good deal, he 
made no further allusion to the subject that night. 


154 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.O. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE SQUIRE GIVES HIS CONSENT. 

Edward Cossey did not come away from the scene of his 
engagement in a very happy or triumphant tone of mind. 
Ida’s bitter words stung like whips, and he understood, as she 
clearly meant he should understand, that it was only in con- 
sideration of the money advanced that she had consented to 
become his wife. Now, however satisfactory it may be to be 
rich enough to purchase your heart’s desire in this fashion, it 
is not altogether soothing to the pride of a nineteenth-century 
man to be continually reminded by the thought that he is a 
buyer in the market and nothing but a buyer. Of course he 
saw clearly enough that there was an object in all this — he 
saw that Ida, by making obvious her dislike, wished to dis- 
gust him with his bargain, and escape from an alliance of 
which the prospect was hateful to her. But he had no inten- 
tion of being so easily discouraged. In the first place his pas- 
sion for the woman was as a devouring flame, eating ever at 
his heart. In that at any rate he was sincere ; he did love 
her so far as his nature was capable of love, or at any rate he 
had the keenest desire to make her his wife. A delicate- 
minded man would probably have shrunk from forcing him- 
self upon a wogaan under parallel circumstances ; but Edward 
Cossey did not happen to fall into that category, and as a 
matter of fact such men are rare. Few even among the gentler 
classes are there who, where women are concerned, will allow 
delicacy to weigh against their passion or their interest. 

Another thing that he took into count was that Ida would 
probably get over her dislike. He was a close observer of 
women, in a cynical and half-contemptuous way, and he re- 
marked, or thought that he remarked, a curious tendency 
among them to submit with comparative complacency to the 
inevitable whenever it happened to coincide with their mate- 
rial advantage. Women, he argued, have not, as a class, out- 
grown the recollections of their primitive condition, when 
their partners for life were chosen for them bj’’ lot as the 
chance of battle. They still recognize the claims of the wealth- 
iest or strongest, and their love of luxury and ease is so keen 
that if the nest they lie in is only soft enough they will not 
grieve long over the fact that it was not of their own choosing. 
Arguing from these premises, therefore, he came to the con- 


155 


COLONEL qUAEITCH, V.C, 

elusion that Ida would soon get over her repugnance to marry- 
ing him when she found how many comforts and good things 
marriage with so rich a man would place at her disposal, and 
would learn to look on him with affection and gratitude as 
the author of her gilded ease, if for no other reason, And so, 
indeed, she might have done had she been of another and 
very common stamp. But, unfortunately for his reasoning, 
there are members of her sex who are by nature of an order 
of mind superior to these considerations, and who realize that 
they have but one life to live, and that the highest form of 
happiness is not dependent upon money or money’s worth, 
but rather upon the indulgence of mental aspirations, and 
those affections which, when genuine, draw nearer to holiness 
than anything else about us. Such a woman, more especially 
if she be already possessed with, an affection for another 
man, does not easily become reconciled to her lot, however 
quietly she may endure it, and^such a woman was Ida De 
la Molle. 

Edward Cossey, on returning to Boisingham on the even- 
ing of his engagement, at once wrote and posted a note to the 
Squire, saying that he would call on him on the following 
morning on a matter of business. Accordingly, about half 
past ten o’clock, , he arrived and was shown into the vestibule, 
where he found the old gentleman standing with his back 
to the fire and plunged in reflection. 

“Well, Mr. De la Molle,” said Edward, rather nervously, as 
soon as he had shaken hatnds, “I do not know if Ida has 
spoken to you about what took place between us yesterday.” 

“Yes,” he said — “yes, she told me something to the effect 
that she had accepted a proposal of marriage from you. sub- 
ject to my consent, of course ; but really the whole thing is 
so sudden that I have hardly had time to consider it.” 

“ It is very simple,” said Edward, “ I am deeply attached to 
your daughter, and I have been so fortunate as to be accepted 
by her. Should you give your consent to the marriage, I may 
as well say at once that I wish to make the most liberal money 
arrangement in my power. I will make Ida a present of the 
mortgage bonds that I hold over this property, and she may 
put them in the fire. Further, I will covenant on the death 
of my father, which cannot now be long delayed, to settle 
two hundred thousand pounds upon her absolutely. Also I 
shall be prepared to agree if I have a son, and. he should wish 
to do so, he shall take the name of De la Molle.” 

“I am sure,” said the Squire, turning round to hide his 
natural gratification at these proposals, “ your offers on the 


156 


COLONEL qUARITGIL V.C. 


subject of settlements are of a most liberal order, and of 
course, so far as I am concerned, Ida will have this place, 
which may one day be again more valuable than it is now.” 

“ I am glad that they meet with your approval,” said Ed- 
ward ; “and now there is one more thing I want to ask you, 
Mr. De la Molle, and which I hope, if you will give your con- 
sent to the marriage, you will not raise^ any objection to. 
That is, that our engagement should not be announced at 
present. The fact is,” he went on, hurriedly, “my father is 
a very peculiar man, and has a great idea of my maiTying 
somebody with a large fortune. Also, his state of health is 
so uncertain that there is no possibility of knowing how he 
will take anything. Indeed, he is dying ; the doctors told me 
that he might go off any day, and that he cannot last for an- 
other three months. If the engagement is announced to him 
now, at the best I shall have a great deal of trouble, and at 
the worst he might, if he happened to take a fancy against it, 
make me suffer in his will.” 

“Umph ! ” said the Squire ; “ I don’t quite like the idea of 
a projected marriage with my daughter. Miss De la Molle of 
Honham Castle, being hushed up as though there was some- 
thing discreditable about it, but still there may be peculiar 
circumstances in the case that would justify me in consenting 
to that course. You are both old enough to know your own 
minds, and the match would be as advantageous to you as it 
could be to us, for even nowadays a family, and I may even 
say personal appearance, still go for something where matri- 
mony is concerned. I have reason to know that your father 
is a peculiar man, very peculiar. Yes, on the whole, though 
I don’t like hole-and-corner affairs, I shall have no objection 
to the engagement not being announced for the next month 
or two.” 

“ Thank you for considering me so much,” said Edward, 
with a sigh of relief. “Then am I to understand that you 
give your consent to our engagement ? ” 

The Squire reflected for a moment. Everything seemed 
quite straight, and yet he suspected crookedness. His latent 
distrust of the man, which had not been decreased by the 
scene of two nights before — for he never could bring himself 
to like Edward Cossey — arose in force and made him hesitate 
when there was no visible ground for hesitation. He had, as 
has been said, an instinctive insight into character that was 
almost feminine in its intensity, and it was lifting a warning 
finger before him now. 

don’t quite know what to say,” he replied at length. 


“ The whole affair is so sudden — and, to tell you the truth, I 
thought that Ida had bestowed her affections in another 
direction.” 

Edward’s face darkened. “ I thought so too,” he answered, 

until yesterday I was so happy as to be undeceived. I ought 
to tell you, by the way,” he went on, running away from the 
covert falsehood in his last words as quickly as he could, 
“ how much I regret that I was the cause of that scene with 
Colonel Quaritch, more especially as I find that there is an 
explanation of the story against him. The fact is, I was fool- 
ish enough to be put out because he beat me out shooting, 
and also because — well, I — I was jealous of him.” 

“ Ah, yes,” said the Squire, rather coldly, “ a most unfor- 
tunate affair. Of course I don’t know what the particulars of 
the matter were, and it is no affair of mine, but, speaking 
generally, I should say, never bring an accusation of that sort 
against a man at all unless you are driven to it, and if you do 
bring it, be quite certain of youi*' ground. However, that is 
neither here nor there. Well, about this engagement. Ida 
is old enough to judge for herself, and seems to have made up 
her mind, so, as I know no reason to the contrary, and as the 
business arrangements proposed are all that I could wish, I 
cannot see that I have any grounds for withholding my consent. 
So all I can say, sir, is that I hope that you will make my 
daughter a good husband, and that you will both be happy. 
Ida is a high-spirited woman, and in some ways a very pecu- 
liar woman ; but in my opinion she is greatly above the aver- 
age of her sex, as I have kno'wn it, and provided you have her 
affection, and don’t attempt to drive her, she will go through 
thick and thin for you. But I dare say you would like to see 
her. Oh, by the way, I forgot, she has got a dreadful head- 
ache this morning, and is stopping in bed. It isn’t much in 
her line, but I dare say that she is a little upset. Perhaps 
you would like to come up to dinner to-night.” 

This proposition Edward, knowing full well that Ida’s head- 
ache was a device to rid herself of the necessity of seeing him, 
accepted with gratitude and departed. 

As soon as he was gone, Ida herself came down. 

“Well, my dear,” said the Squire, cheerfully, “I have just 
had the pleasure of seeing Edward Cossey, and I have told 
him that, as you seemed to wish it ” 

Here Ida made a movement of impatience, but remembered 
herself and said nothing. 

“That as you seemed to wish that it should be so, I had 
no ground of objection to your engagement. I may as well 


158 


COLONEL qVARlTVH, V.O, 


tell you that the proposals that he makes as regards settle- 
ments are of the most liberal nature.” 

“Are they ? ” answered Ida, indifferently. “ Is Mr. Cossey 
coming here to dinner ? ” 

“Yes ; I asked him. I thought that you would like to see 
him.” 

“ Well, then, I wish you had not,” she answered, with ani- 
mation, “ because there is nothing for dinner except some 
cold beef. Beally, father, it is very thoughtless of you ; ” and 
she stamped her foot and went off in a huff, leaving the 
Squire full of reflection. 

“I wonder what it all means ?” he said to himself. “She 
can’t care about the man much or she would not make that 
fuss about his being asked to dinner. She isn’t the sort of 
woman to be caught by the money, I should think. Well, 
I know nothing about it ; it is no affair of mine, and I can 
only take things as I find them.” 

And then he fell to reflecting that the marriage was an ex- 
traordinary stroke of luck for the family. Here they were at 
the last gasp, mortgaged up to the eyes, when suddenly for- 
tune, in the shape of a, on the whole, perfectly unobjection- 
able young man, appears, takes up the mortgages, proposes 
settlements to the tune of hundreds of thousands, and even 
offers to perpetuate the old family name in the person of his 
son, should he have one. Such a state of affairs could not 
but be gratifying to any man, however unworldly, and the 
Squire was not altogether unworldly. That is, he had a keen 
sense of the dignity of his social position and his family, and 
it had all his life been his chief and laudable desire to be 
sufficiently provided with the goods of this world to raise the 
De la Molles to the position which they had occupied in 
former centuries. Hitherto, however, the tendency of events 
had been all the other way — the house was a sinking one, 
and but the other day its ancient roof had nearly fallen about 
their ears. Now, however, as though by magic, the prospect 
changed. On Ida’s marriage all the mortgages, those heavy 
accumulations of years, of growing expenditure and narrow- 
ing means, would roll off the back of the estate, and the De 
la Molles of Honham Castle would once more take the place 
in the country to which they were undoubtedly entitled. 

It is not wonderful that the prospect proved a pleasing one 
to him, or that his head was filled with visions of splendors 
to come. 

As it chanced, on that very morning it was necessary for 
Mr. Quest to pay the old gentleman a visit in order to obtain 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.G, 


159 


his signature to a lease of a bakery in Boisingham, which, to- 
gether with two or three other houses, belonged to the estate. 

He arrived just as the Squire was in the full flow of his 
meditations, and it would not have needed a man of Mr. 
Quest’s penetration and powers of observation to discover 
that he had something on his mind which he was longing for 
an opportunity to talk about. 

The Squire signed the lease without paying the slightest 
attention to Mr. Quest’s explanations, and then suddenly 
asked him when the first interest on the recently effected 
mortgages came due. 

The lawyer mentioned an approaching date. 

“ Ah,” said the Squire ; “then it will have to be met ; but 
it does not matter, it will be for the last time.” 

Mr. Quest pricked up his ears and looked at him. 

“ The fact is, Quest,” he went on, by way of explanation, 
“ that there are — well — family arrangements pending which 
will put an end to these embarrassments in a natural and a 
proper way.” 

“ Indeed,” said Mr. Quest ; “lam very glad to hear it.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the Squire; “unfortunately I am under 
some restraints in speaking about the matter at present, or 
I should like to ask your opinion, for which, as you know, I 
have a great respect. Keally, though, I do not know why 
I should not consult my lawyer on a matter of business. 
I only consented not to trumpet the thing about.” 

“Lawyers are confidential agents,” said Mr. Quest, quietly. 

“ Of course they are. Of course, and it is their business 
to hold their tongues. I may rely upon your discretion, may 
I not?” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Quest. 

“ AVell, the matter is this : Mr. Edward Cossey is engaged 
to Miss De la Molle. He has just been here to obtain my 
consent, which, of course, I have not withheld, as I know no- 
thing against the young man — nothing at all. The only stip- 
ulation that he made is, I think, a reasonable one under the 
circumstances, namely, that the engagement is to be kept 
quiet for a little while on account of the condition of his 
father’s health. He says that he is an unreasonable man, and 
that he might take a prejudice against it.” 

Daring this announcement Mr. Quest had remained per- 
fectly quiet, his face showing no signs of excitement, only his 
eyes shone with a curious light. 

“Indeed,” he said ; “ this is very interesting news.” 

“ Yes,” said the Squire. “ That is what I meant by saying 


160 


COLONEL qUAlllTClL V-C 


that there would be no necessity to make any arrangements foi" 
the future payment of interest, for Cossey has informed me 
that he proposes to put the mortgage bonds in the fire before 
his marriage.” 

“Indeed,” said Mr. Quest ; “well, he could hardly do less, 
could he ? Altogether, I think you are to be congratulated, 
Mr. De la Molle. It is not often that a man gets such a 
chance of clearing the encumbrances off a property. And^ 
now I am very sorry, but I must be getting home, as I prom- 
ised my wife to be back for luncheon. As the thing is to 
be kept quiet, I suppose it would be premature for me to 
offer my congratulations to Miss De la Molle.” 

“Yes, yes ; don’t say anything about it at present. Well, 
good-by.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

BELLE PAYS A VISIT 

Mr. Quest got into his dog-cart and drove homeward, full 
of feelings which it would be difficult to describe. 

The hour of his revenge was at hand. He had played his 
cards and he had won the game, and fortune with it, and his 
enemy lay in the hollow of his hand. He looked behind him 
at the proud towers of the castle, reflecting as he did so that 
in all probability they would belong to him before another 
year was over his head. At one time he had earnestly longed 
to possess this place, but now this was not so much the ob- 
ject of his desire. What he wanted now was the money. 
With thirty thousand pounds in his hand he would, together 
with what he had, be a rich man, and he had already laid his 
plans for the future. Of the Tiger he had heard nothing 
lately. She was cowed, but he well knew that it was only for 
a while. By and by her rapacity would get the better of her 
fear, and she would recommence her persecutions. This be- 
ing so he came to a determination — he would put the world 
between them. Once let him have this money in his hand 
and he would start his life afresh in some new country ; he 
was not too old for it, and he would be a rich man, and then 
perhaps he might get rid of the cares which had rendered so 
much of his life valueless. If Belle would go with him well 
and good ; if not, he could not help it. If she did go, there 
must be a reconciliation first, for he could not tolerate the 
life they lived any longer. 


COLONEL QUARITGH, V.G. 


161 


In due course he reached the Oaks and went in. Lun- 
cheon was on the table, at which Belle was sitting. She was, 
as usual, dressed in black, and beautiful to look on ; but her 
round, babyish face was pale and pinched, and there were 
black lines beneath her eyes. 

“ I did not know that you were coming back to luncheon,” 
she said ; “ I am afraid there is not much to eat.” 

“ Yes,” he said. “ I finished my business up at the castle, 
so I thought I may as well come home. By the way. Belle, I 
have a bit of news for you.” 

“What is it?” she asked, looking up shai-ply, for some- 
thing in his tone attracted her attention and awoke her 
fears. 

“Your friend, Edward Cossey, is going to be married to 
Ida de la Molle.” 

She blanched till she looked like death itself, and put her 
hands to her heart as though she had been stabbed. 

“ The Squire told me so himself,” he went on, keeping his 
eyes remorselessly fixed upon her face. 

She leant forward, and he thought she was going to faint, 
but she did not. By a supreme effort she recovered herself 
and drank a glass of sherry which was standing by her side. 

“ I expected it,” she said, in a low voice. 

“ You mean that you dreaded it,” answered Mr. Quest, 
quietly. He rose and locked the door and then came and 
stood close to her and spoke : 

“ Listen, Belle. I know all about your affair wdth Edward 
Cossey. I have proofs of it, but I have forborne to use them, 
because I saw that in the end he would weary of you and de- 
sert you for some other woman, and that would be my best 
revenge upon you. You have all along been nothing but his 
toy, the light woman with whom he amused his leisure 
hours.” 

She put her hands back over her heart but said never a 
word, and he went on : 

“ Belle, I did wrong to marry you when you did not want to 
maiTy me, but, being married, you have done wrong to be 
unfaithful to your vows. I have been rewarded by your infi- 
delity, and your infidelity has been rewarded by desertion. 
Now I have a proposal to make to you, and if you are wise 
you will accept it. Let us set the one wrong against the 
other ; let both be forgotten. Forgive me, and I will forgive 
you, and let us make peace — if not now, then in a little while, 
when your heart is not so sore, and go right away from Ed- 
ward Cossey and Ida Be la Molle and Honham and Boising- 
11 


162 


COLONEL qUABITCH, V.G. 


ham, into some new part of the world, where we can begin 
life again and try to forget the past.” 

She looked up at him and shook her head mournfully, and 
twice she tried to speak and twice she failed. The third time 
the words came. 

‘‘You do not understand me,” she said. “You are very 
kind and I am very grateful to you, but you do not under- 
stand me. I cannot get over things so easily as I know most 
women can ; what I have done I never can undo. I do not 
blame him altogether— it was as much or more my fault than 
his — but having once loved him I cannot go back to you or 
any other man. If you like I will go on living with you as 
we live, and I will try to make you comfortable, but I can say 
no more.” 

“ Think again. Belle,” he said, almost pleadingly. “ I dare 
say that you have never given me credit for much tenderness 
of heart, and I know that you have as much against me as I 
have against you. But I have always loved you, and I will 
make you a good husband if you will let me.” 

“ You are very good,” she said, “ but it cannot be. Get rid 
of me if you like and marry somebody else. I am ready to 
take the penalty of what I have done.” 

“ Once more, Belle, I beg you to consider. Do you know 
what kind of man this is for whom you are giving up your 
life ? Not only has he deserted you, but do you know how 
he has got hold of Ida De la Molle ? He has, as I know well, 
bought her. I tell you he has bought her as much as though 
he had gone into the open market and paid down a price for 
her. The other day Cossey k Son were going to foreclose 
upon the Honham estates, which would have ruined the old 
gentleman. Well, what did your young man do ? He went 
to the girl, who hates him, by the way, and is in love with 
Colonel Quaritch, and said to her, ‘If you will promise to 
marry me when I ask you, I will find the thirty thousand 
pounds and take up the mortgages.’ And on those terms she 
agreed to marry him. And now he has got rid of you and he 
claims her promise. That is the history. I wonder that 
your pride will bear such a thing. By Heaven, I would kill 
the man.” 

She looked up at him curiously. “ Would you ? ” she 
said ; “ it is not a bad idea. I dare say it is all true. He is 
worthless. Why does one fall in love with worthless people ? 
Well, there is an end of it, or a beginning of the end. As I 
have sown, so must I reap ; ” and she got up, and unlocking 
the door, left the room. 


COLONEL QUABITCH, KG. 


168 


“ Yes/^ he said aloud, when she had gone, “ there is a be- 
ginning of the end. Upon my word, what between one thing 
and another, unlucky devil as I am, I had rather stand in my 
own shoes than in Edward Cossey’s.” 

Belle went to her room, and sat thinking, or rather brood- 
ing, sullenly. Then she put on her bonnet and cloak and 
started out, taking the road that ran past Honham Castle. 
She had not gone a hundred yards before she found herself 
face to face with Edward Cossey himself. He was coming 
out of a gunsmith’s shop, where he had been ordering some 
cartridges. 

“ How do you do, Belle ? ” he said, coloring up and lifting 
his hat. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Cossey,” she answered, coming to a 
stop and looking him straight in the face. 

“ Where ^re you going ? ” h6 asked, not knowing what to 
say. 

“ I am going to walk up to the castle to call on Miss De la 
MoUe.” 

“ I don’t think you will find her. She is in bed with a 
headache.” 

“ Oh ! So you have been up there this morning ? ” 

“ Yes. I had to see the Squire about some business.” 

“ Indeed ! ” Then, looking him in the eyes again, “ Are 
you engaged to be married to Ida ? ” 

He colored up ; he could not prevent himself from doing 
so. ‘‘ No,” he answered. ' “ What makes you ask such a 
question ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she said, laughing a little ; “ feminine 
curiosity, I suppose. I thought that you might be. Good- 
by.” And she went on, leaving Edward Cossey to the enjoy- 
ment of a very peculiar set of sensations. 

“ What a coward ! ” said Belle to herself. “ He does not 
even dare to tell me the truth.” 

Nearly an hour later she arrived at the castle, and asking 
for Ida, was shown into the drawing-room, where she found 
her sitting reading. 

Ida rose to greet her, not without warmth, for the two wo- 
men, although they were at the opposite poles of character, 
had a friendly feeling for each other. 

In this way they were both strong, and strength always 
recognizes and respects strength. 

“ Have you walked up ? ” asked Ida. 

“Yes; I walked on the chance of finding you. I wanted 
to speak to you.” 


1^4 


aoLONEL quARJTon, v,a 


“ Yes ? said Ida. What is it ? 

“ This. Forgive me, but are you engaged to be married 
to Edward Cossey ? ” 

Ida looked at her in a slow, stately kind of way, which 
seemed to ask by what right she came to question her. At 
least so Belle read it. 

“I know that I have no right to ask such a question,” she 
said, with humility, “ and of course you need not answer it ; 
but I have a reason for asking.” 

“ Well,” said Ida, “I w^as requested by Mr. Cossey to keep 
the matter secret ; but he appears to have divulged it. Yes, 
I am engaged to be married to him.” 

Belle’s beautiful face turned a shade paler, if that was pos- 
sible, and her eyes hardened. 

“Do you wonder I ask you this?” she said. “I will tell 
you, though probably when I have done so you will never 
speak to me again. I am Edward Cossey’s discarded mis- 
tress,” and she laughed bitterly enough. 

Ida shrank a little and colored, as a pure and high-minded 
woman naturally does when she is for the first time suddenly 
brought into actual contact with impurity and passion. 

“I know,” went on Belle, “that I must seem a shameful 
thing to you ; but, Ida, good, and cold and stately as you are, 
pray God that you may never be thrown into temptation ; 
pray God that you may never be married almost by force to 
a man whom you hate, and then suddenly know what a thing 
it is to fall in love, and for the first time feel your life awake.” 

“ Hush !” said Ida, gently; “what right have I to judge 
you?” 

“I loved him,” went on Belle — “I loved him passionately, 
and for a little while it was as though heaven had opened its 
gates, for he used to care for me a little, and I think he would 
have taken me away and married me afterw^^ard, but 1 would 
not hear of it, because I knew it would ruin him. He offered 
to once, and I refused, and within three hours of that I 
believe that he was bargaining for you. Well, and then it 
was the old story, that he fell more and more in love with 
you, and of course I had no hold upon him.” 

“ Yes,” said Ida, moving impatiently ; “ but wby do you tell 
me all this ? It is very painful, and I had rather not hear 
it.” 

“ Why do I tell you? I tell you because I do not wish you 
to marry Edward Cossey. I tell you because I wish him to 
feel a little of what I have to feel, and because I have said he 
should not marry you.” 


COLONEL QUARITCII, V.G. 


165 


“I wish that you could prevent it,” said Ida, with a sudden 
outburst. “I am sure you are quite welcome to Mr. Cossey 
so far as I am concerned, for I detest him, and I cannot imag- 
ine how any woman could ever have done otherwise.” 

“ Thank you,” said 3elle, “ but I have done with Mr. Cossey, 
and I think I hate him too. I know that I did hate him when 
I met him in the street just now and he told me that he was 
not engaged to you. You say that you detest him ; why, 
then, do you marry him — you are a free woman ? ” 

“ Do you w^ant to know ? ” said Ida, wheeling round and look- 
ing her visitor full in the face. “lam going to marry him 
for the same reason that you say caused you to marry — be- 
cause I must. l am going to marry him because he lent me 
money on condition that I promised to marry him ; and as I 
have taken the money, I must '‘give him his price, even if it 
breaks my heart. You think that you are wretched ; how do 
you know that I am not fifty times as wretched ? Your lot is 
to lose your lover, mine is to have one forced upon me and 
endure him all my life. The worst of your pain is over, all 
mine is to come.” 

“ Why ! why ! ” broke in Belle. “ What is such a promise 
as that ? He cannot force you to marry him, and it is better 
for a woman to die than to have to marry a man she hates, 
especially,” she added, meaningly, “ if she happens to love 
another man. Be advised by me ; I know what it is.” 

“ Yes,” said Ida, “-no doubt it is better to die, but death is 
not so easy. As for the promise, you do not seem to under- 
stand that no gentleman or lady can break a promise in con- 
sideration of which they have received money. Whatever he 
has done, and whatever he is, I must marry IVIr. Cossey, so I 
do not think that we need discuss the subject any more.” ' 

Belle sat silent for a minute or more, and then, rising, said 
that she must go. “I have warned you,” she added, “al- 
though to warn you I have had to put myself at your mercy. 
You can tell the story and destroy me if you like. I do not 
much care if you do. Women such as I get reckless.” 

“ You must understand me very little, Mrs. Quest ” (it had 
always been Belle before, and she winced at the changed 
name), “ if you think me capable of such conduct. You have 
nothing to fear from me.” 

She held out her hand, but in her humility and shame 
Belle went without taking it, and through the angry sunset 
light walked slowly back to Boisingham, and as she walked 
there was a look upon her face that Edward Cossey would 
scarcely have cared to see. 


166 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.G. 


CHAPTEE XXm 

MR. QUEST HAS HIS INNINGS. 

All that afternoon and far into the evening Mr. Quest was 
employed in drafting, and with his own hand engrossing on 
parchment, certain deeds, to the proper execution of which 
he seemed to find constant reference necessary to a tin box of 
papers which was labelled “ Honham Castle estates.” 

By eleven that night everything was finished, and having 
carefully collected and docketed his papers, he put the tin 
box away and went home to bed. 

Next morning, about ten o’clock, Edward Cossey was sit- 
ting at breakfast in no happy frame of mind. He had gone 
up to the castle to dinner on the previous evening, but it can- 
not be said that he had enjoyed himself. Ida was there, 
looking very handsome in her evening dress, but she was 
cold as a stone and unapproachable as a statue. She scarcely 
spoke to him, indeed, except in answer to some direct re- 
mark, reserving all her conversation for her father, who 
seemed to have caught the contagion of restraint, and was, 
for him, unusually silent and depressed. 

But once or twice he found her looking at him, and then 
there was upon her face a mingled expression of contempt 
and irrepressible aversion which chilled him to the marrow. 

These sentiments toward him were indeed so much more 
plainly developed than they had been before that at last a 
conviction, which he had at first rejected as incredible, forced 
itself into his mind. That conviction was that Belle must 
have disbelieved his denial of the engagement, and in her 
eagerness for revenge had told Ida the whole story. The 
thought made him feel faint and sick, but there was but one 
thing to be done, and that was to face it out. Once when the 
Squire’s back was turned he ventured to attempt some little 
tenderness in which the word ‘‘ dear ” occurred, but Ida did 
not seem to hear it, and looked straight over his head into 
space, and this he felt was trying. So trying did he find the 
whole entertainment, indeed, that about half past nine he 
rose, and came away, saying that he had some bank papers 
which must be attended to that night. 

Now most men would in all human probability have been 
dismayed by this state of affairs into relinquishing an attempt 
at matrimony, which it was evident could only be carried 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


16 Y 


through in the face of the quiet but none the less vigorous 
dislike aud contempt of the other contracting party. But 
this was not so with Edward Cossey. Ida’s coldness exer- 
cised upon his tenacious and obstinate mind much the same 
effect that may be supposed to be produced upon the be- 
nighted seeker for the North Pole by a frozen ocean of ice- 
bergs. Like the explorer, he was convinced that if once he 
could get over those cold and frowning heights he would find 
a smiling and sunny land beyond, and perchance many other 
delights, -and like the explorer, again, he was, metaphorically, 
ready to die in the effort. For to tell the truth, he loved and 
desired her more every day, till now his passion dominated his 
physical being and his mental judgment, so that whatever 
loss was entailed, whatever obstacles arose, he was determined 
to endure and overcome them, if by so doing he might gain 
his end. 

He was reflecting upon all this on the morning in ques~ 
tion, when Mr. Quest, looking very cool and composed and 
gentleman-like, was shown into his room, much as Colonel 
Quaritch had been shown in two mornings before. 

“How do you do, Quest?” he said, in a from high to low 
kind of tone, which he was in the habit of adopting toward 
his official subordinates. “ Sit down. What is it ? ” 

“It -is some business, Mr. Cossey,” the lawyer answered, in 
his usual quiet tones. 

“ Honham Castle mortgages again, I suppose,” growled he. 
“ I only hope that you don’t want any more money on that 
account at present, that’s all, because I can’t raise another 
cent while the governor lives, for they don’t entail cash and 
bank shares, you know, and though my credit’s pretty good, 
I am not far from the bottom of it.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Quest, with a faint smile, “ it has to do 
with the Honham Castle mortgages ; but as I have a good 
deal to say, perhaps we had better wait till the things are 
cleared away.” 

“ All right. Just ring the bell, will you, and take a ciga- 
rette.” 

Mr. Quest smiled again and rang the bell, but did not take 
the cigarette. When the breakfast things had been removed 
he took a chair, and placing it on the further side of the 
table in such a position that the light, which was to his back, 
struck full upon Edward Cossey’s face, commenced to delib- 
erately untie and sort his bundle of papers. Presently he 
came to the one he wanted. It was not an original letter, 
but a copy. “ Will you kindly read this, Mr. Cossey ? ” he 


168 COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C 

said, quietly, as he pushed the letter toward him across the 
table. 

Edward finished lighting his cigarette, and then took the 
letter up and glanced at it carelessly. At the first line, how- 
ever, his expression changed to one of absolute horror, his 
face blanched, the perspiration sprang out uj)on his forehead, 
and the cigarette dropped from his fingers to the carpet, 
where it lay smouldering. And no wonder, for the letter was 
a copy of one of Belle’s most passionate epistles to himself. 
He had never been able to restrain her from writing these 
compromising letters. Indeed, this one was the very one that 
some little time before Mr. Quest had abstracted from the 
pocket of his lounging coat in his room in London. 

He read on for a little way and then put the letter down 
upon the table. There was no need for him to go on, it was 
all in the same strain. 

‘‘You will observe, Mr. Cossey, that this is a copy,” said 
Mr. Quest, “ but if you like you can inspect the original 
document.” 

He made no answer. 

“Now,” went on Mr. Quest, handing him a second paper, 

“ here is the copy of another letter, of which the originM is 
in your handwriting.” 

Edward glanced at it. It was an intercepted letter of his 
own, dated about a year before, and its contents, though not 
of so passionate nature as the other, were still of a sufficiently 
incriminating character. 

He put it down upon the table by the side of the first and 
waited for Mr. Quest to go on. 

“I have other evidence,” said his visitor presently, “but 
you are probably sufficiently versed in such matters to know 
that these letters alone are almost enough for my purpose, 
which is to commence a suit for divorce against my wife, in 
which you will, of course, in accordance with the provisions 
of the Act, be joined as co-respondent. Indeed, I have 
already drawn up a letter of instruction to my London agents 
directing them to take the preliminary steps,” and he pushed 
a third paper toward him; 

Edward Cossey turned his back to his tormentor, and 
resting his head upon his hand, tried to think. 

“ Mr. Quest,” he said, presently, in a hoarse vojce, “ with- 
out admitting anything, there are reasons which would make 
it ruinous to me if such an action were commenced at 
present.” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ there are. In the first place, there is * 


<J0 L 0 NHL Q U. I li/ TCif, K a 


160 

no knowing what view your father would take of the matter, 
and how his view would affect your future interests ; and in 
the second, your engagement to Miss De la Molle, upon - 
which your heart is so strongly set, would certainly be broken 
off.” 

“ How do you know that I am engaged? ” asked Edward, 
in surprise. 

“ It does not matter how I know it,” said the lawyer. “ I 
do know it, so it will be useless for you to deny it. As you 
remark, this suit will probably be your ruin in every way, 
and therefore it is, as you will easily understand, a good 
moment for a man who wants his revenge to choose it.” 

“ ^yithout admitting anything,” answered Edward Cossey, 

“ I wish to ask you a question. Is there no way out of this ? 
Suj)posing that I have done you a wrong, wrong admits of 
compensation.”. 

“Yes, it does, Mr. Cossey, and I have thought of that. 
Everybody has his price in this world, and I have mine ; but 
the compensation for such a wrong must be a heavy one.” 

“ At what price will you agree to stay the action forever ? ” 
he asked. 

“The price that I will take to stay the action is the transfer 
into my name of the mortgages you hold over the Honham 
Castle estates,” answered Mr. Quest, quietly. 

“ Great heavens ! ” said Edward ; “ why, that is a matter 
of thirty thousand pounds ! ” 

“ I know it is, and I know'also that it is worth your while to 
pay thirty thousand pounds to save yourself from the exposure, 
the chance of disinheritance, and the certainty of the loss of 
the woman whom you want to marry. So well do I know it 
that I have prepared the necessary deeds for your signature, 
and here they are. Listen, sir,” he went on, sternly ; “refuse 
to accept my terms, and by to-night’s post I shall send this 
letter of instructions. Also I shall send to Mr. Cosse}^ senior 
and to Mr. De la Molle copies of these two precious epistles,” 
and he pointed to the incriminating documents, “ and a copy 
of the letter to my agents ; and where will you be then ? 
Consent, and I will bind myself not to proceed in any way or 
form. Now make your choice.” 

“But I cannot; even if I will, I cannot,” said he, almost 
wringing his hands in liis perplexity. “ It was on condition 
of my taking up those mortgages that Ida consented to be- 
come engaged to me, and I have promised that I will cancel 
them on our wedding. Will you not take money instead?” 

“Tes,” answered Mr. Quest, “I would take money. A 


170 


COLONEL qUARlTGE, V.C. 

little time ago I would not have taken it, because I wanted 
that property, but I have changed my ideas. But, as you 
yourself said, your credit is strained to the utmost, and while 
your father is alive you will not find it possible to raise 
another thirty thousand pounds. Besides, if this matter is 
to be settled at all it must be settled now. I will not wait 
while you make attempts to raise the money.” 

“ But about the mortgages ? I promised to keep them. 
What shall I say to Ida ? ” 

“Say? Say nothing. You can meet them if you like, 
after your father’s death. Kefuse if you like, but if you re- 
fuse you will be mad. Thirty thousand pounds will be noth- 
ing to you, but exposure will be ruin. Have you made up 
your mind ? You must take my offer or leave it. Sign the 
documents, and I will put the originals of those two letters 
into your hands ; refuse, and I will take my steps.” 

Edward Cossey thought for a moment and then said : “ I 
will sign. Let me see tlie papers.” 

Mr. Quest turned aside to hide the expression of triumph 
which flitted across his face, and then handed him the deeds. 
They were elaborately drawn, for he was a skilful legal 
draughtsman, quite as skilful as many a leading Chancery 
conveyancer, but the substance of them was that the mort- 
gages were transferred to him by the said Edward Cossey in 
and for the consideration that he, the said William M. Quest, 
consented to abandon forever a pending action for divorce 
against his wife Belle Quest, whereto the said Edward Cos- 
sey was to be joined as co-respondent. 

“ You will observe,” said Mr. Quest, “ that if you attempt 
to contest the validity of this assignment, which you certainly 
could not do with any prospect of success, the attempt will 
recoil upon your own head, because the whole scandal will 
then transpire. We shall require some witnesses, so, with 
your permission, I will ring the bell and ask the landlady 
and your servant to step up. They need know nothing of the 
contents of the papers ; ” and he did so. 

“ Stop,” said Edward presently. “ Where are the original 
letters ? ” 

“ Here,” answered Mr. Quest, producing them from an inner 
pocket, and showing them to him from a distance. “When 
the landlady comes up I will give them to her to hold in 
this envelope, directing her to hand them to you when the 
deeds are signed and witnessed. She will only think that 
it is part of the ceremony.” 

Presently the man-servant and the landlady arrived, and 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V,G. 


171 


Mr. Quest, in his most matter-of-fact way, explained to them 
that they were required to witness some documents, and at 
the same time handed the letters to the woman, saying that 
she was to give them to Mr. Cossey, when they had" all done 
signing. 

Then Edward Cossey signed, and placing his thumb on the 
familiar wafer delivered the various documents as his act and 
deed ; and the witnesses, with much preparation and effort, 
aiffixed their awkward signatures in the places pointed out to 
them ; and in a few minutes the thing was done, and Mr. 
Quest was a richer man by thirty thousand pounds than when 
he had got up that morning. 

“Now give Mr. Cossey that packet, Mrs. Jeffries,” he said, 
as he blotted the signatures, “ and then you can go,” and she 
did so and w^ent. 

When the witnesses had gone, Edward looked at the letters 
and then with a savage oath flung them into the fire and 
watched them burn. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Cossey,” said Mr. Quest, as he pre- 
pared to depart with the deeds. “ You have now bought 
your experience and had to pay dearly for it ; but, upon my 
word, when I think of all you owe me, I wonder at myself for 
letting you off at so small a price.” 

When he had gone, Edw’ard Cossey gave way to his feel- 
ings in language more forcible than polite, and what they 
were may be more easily imagined than described. For now, 
in addition to all the m'oney that he had lost, and the painful 
exposure to which he had been subjected, he was face to face 
with a new difficulty. Either he must make a clean breast of 
it to Ida about the mortgages being no longer in his hands, 
or he must pretend that he still had them. In the first alter- 
native, the consideration upon which Ida had agreed to 
marry him came to nothing. Moreover, she w’as thereby 
released from her promise, and he was well aware that under 
these circumstances she would certainly break off the engage- 
ment. In the second, he w^ould be acting a lie, and the 
lie would sooner or later be discovered ; and what then ? 
Well, if it was after marriage, what would it matter? To a 
woman of gentle birth there is only one thing more irretriev- 
able than marriage, and that is death. Anyhow, he had suf- 
fered so much for the sake of this woman that he did not 
mean to give her up now. He must meet the mortgages after 
marriage, that was all. 

Facilis descensus Averni. When a man of the character of 
Edward Cossey, or, indeed, of any character, allows his 


172 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


passions to lead him into a course of deceit, he does not find 
it easy to check his wild career. From dishonor to dishonor 
shall he go, till at length, in due season, he reaps as he has 
sown. 


CHAPTEK XXVin. 

i 

HOW GEORGE TREATED JOHNNIE. 

Some two or three days before the scene described in the 
last chapter the faithful George had suddenly announced his 
desire to visit London. 

‘‘ What !” said the Squire, in astonishment, for George had 
never been known to go out of his own county before. 
“ Why, what on earth are you going to do in London ? ” 

“Well, Squire,” answered his retainer, looking marvel- 
lously knowing, “I don’t rightly know, but there’s a cheap 
train goes up to this here exhibition on the Tuesday morn- 
ing and comes back on the Thursday evening. Ten shillings 
both ways, that’s the fare, and I see in the Chroyiicle, I do, 
that there’s a wonderful show of these new-fangled self-tying 
and delivering reapers, sich as they use so over sea in Amer- 
ica, and I’ve a fancy to see them, and have a holiday look 
round London town. So as there ain’t not northing particler 
a-doing, if you hain’t got anything to say agin it, I think I’ll 
go, Squire.” 

“All right,” said the Squire. “Are you going to take your 
wife with you?” 

“Why, no. Squire; I said that I wanted to go for a holi- 
day, and that ain’t no holiday to take the missus too,” and 
George chuckled in a manner that evidently meant volumes. 

And so it came to pass that on the afternoon of the day of 
the transfer of the mortgages from Edward Cossey to Mr. 
Quest the great George found himself wandering vaguely 
about the vast expanse of the Colinderies, and not enjoying 
himself in the least. He had been recommended by some 
travelled individual in Boisingham to a certain lodging near 
Liverpool Street Station, wLich he found wuth the help of a 
friendly porter. Thence he set out for the exhibition, but, 
being of a prudent mind, thought that he would do well to 
save his money and walk the distance. So he walked and 
walked till he was tired, and then, after an earnest consulta- 
tion with a policeman, he took a ’bus, which an hour later 


COLONEL QUARITCn, Y.C. 


173 


landed him — at the Eoyal Oak. His further adventures we 
need not pursue ; suffice it to say that, having started from 
his lodging at three, it was past seven o’clock at night when 
he finally reached the exhibition, more thoroughly wearied 
than though he had done a good day’s harvesting. 

Here he wandered for a while, in continual dread of hav- 
ing his pocket picked, seeking reaping machines and discov- 
ering none, till at length he found himself in the gardens, 
where the electric-light display was in full swing. Soon 
wearying of this, for it was a cold, damp night, he made a 
difficult path to a buffet inside the building, where he sat ^ 
down at a little table and devoured some very unpleasant- 
looking cold beef. Here slumber overcame him, for his 
weariness was great, and he dozed. 

Presently, through the muffied roar and hum of voices, 
which echoed in his sleep-dulled ears, he caught the sound of 
a familiar name, which woke him up “ all of a heap,” as he 
afterward said. The name was “ Quest.” Without moving 
his body he opened his eyes. At the very next table to his 
own were seated two people, a man and a woman. He 
looked at the latter first. She was clad in yellow, and was 
very tall and thin and fierce-looking — so fierce-looking that 
George involuntarily jerked his head back, and brought it 
with painful force in contact with the wall. It was the Tiger 
herself, and her companion was the coarse, dreadful-looking 
man called Johnnie, whom she had sent away in the cab on • 
the night of Mr. Quest’s visit. 

“Oh,” Johnnie was saying, “so Quest is the covey’s name, 
is it ? — and he lives in a city called Boisingham, does he ? Is 
he an oof bird ? ” (rich). 

“Rather,” answered the Tiger, “if only one can make the 
dollars trickle, but he’s a nasty mean one, he is. Look here, 
not a cent, not a stiver, have I got to bless inyseK with, and 
I daren’t ask him for any more not till January. And how 
am I going to live till January ? I got the sack from the 
Music Hall last week because I was a bit jolly, and old 
Thompson, the conductor, wanted to drop ten per cent, on 
my salary because he said I didn’t draw as I used to, and 
that I was getting old and ugly. So I just caught him one 
with the handle of my brollie. that made him see stars, and 
the beast had me up for assault, and it was forty shillings 
and costs. And now I can’t get another billet anyway, and 
I’ve got a bill of sale over the furniture, and I’ve sold all my 
jewels down to my ticker, or at least most of them, and 
there’s that brute,” and her voice rose to a subdued scream. 


174 


COLONEL qVALilTCn, V.C, 


living like a fighting cock and rolling in ‘ oof/ while his 
poor wife is left to starve.” 

“ ‘ Wife.’ Oh, yes, we know all about that,” said the gen- 
tleman called Johnnie. 

A look of doubt and cunning passed across the woman’s 
face. Evidently she feared that she had said too much. 
“Well, it’s as good a name as another,” she said. “Oh, 
don’t I wish that I could get a grip of him; I’d wring him !” 
and she twisted her long bony hands as washer- women do 
when they wring a cloth. 

“I’d back you to,” said Johnnie. “And now, adored Edi- 
thia. I’ve had enough of this blooming show, and I’m off 
Perhaps I shall look in down Pimlico way this evening. 
Ta-ta.” 

“ Well, you may as well stand a liquor first,” said the 
adored one. “I’m pretty dry, I can tell you.” 

“ Certainly, with pleasure ; I will order one. Waiter, a 
brandy and soda for this lady — six of brandy, if you please ; 
she’s very delicate and wants support.” 

The waiter grinned and brought the drink, and the man 
Johnnie turned round as though to pay him, but really he 
departed -without doing so. 

George watched him go, and then looked again at the lady, 
whose appearance seemed to fascinate him. 

“ Well if that ain’t a master one ! ” he said to himself ; 
“ and she called herself his wdfe, she did, and then drew up 
like a slug’s horns. Hang me if I don’t stick to her till I find 
out a bit more of the tale ! ” 

Thus ruminated George, who, be it observed, was no fool, 
and w’ho had a hearty dislike and mistrust of Mr. Quest 
While he -u^as wondering how he was to go to work, an unex- 
pected opportunity occurred. The Tiger had finished her 
brandy and soda, and was preparing to leave, when the 
waiter swooped down upon her. 

“ Money, please, miss,” he said. 

“ Money ! ” she said “ why you’re paid.” 

“ Come, none of that,” said the waiter ; “ I want a shilling 
for the brandy and soda.” > 

“ A shilling, do you ? Then you’ll have to want, you cheat- 
ing, white-faced rascal you ; my friend paid you before he 
went away.” 

“Oh, we’ve had too much of that game,” said the waiter, 
beckoning to a constable, to whom in spite of the “ fair 
Edithia’s ’’very vigorous and pointed protestations, he was pro- 
ceeding to give her in charge, for it ai)peared that she had only 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 1T5 

two-pence about her. This was George’s opportunity, and he 
interfered. 

“I think, marm,” he said, “ that the fat gent with you was 
a-playing of a little game. He only pretended to ‘pay the 
waiter.” 

“ Playing a little game, was he ? ” gasped the infuriated 
Tiger. “ If I don’t play a little game on him when I get a 
chance, my name is hot Edith D'Aubigne ; the nasty mean 
beast — the ” 

“ Permit me, marm,” said George, putting a shilling on the* 
table, which the waiter took, and departed satisfied. 

“I can’t bear to see a real lady like you in difficulty.” 

“ Well, you are a gentleman, you are,” she said. 

“Not at all, marm. That’s my way. And now, marm, 
won’t you haye another?” 

No objection was raised by the lady, who had another, with 
the result that she became, if not exactly tipsy, at any rate not 
far off it. 

Shortly after this the building was cleared, and George 
found himself standing in Exhibition Koad with the woman 
on his arm. 

“You’re going to give me a lift home, ain’t 5^ou ?” she said. 

“ Yes, marm, for sure I am, ” said' George, sighing as he 
thought of the cab fare. 

Accordingly they got into a hansom, and Mrs. D’Aubigne, 
ha\fing given the address in Pimlico, of which George in- 
stantly made a mental note, they started. 

“Come in and have a drink,” she said when they arrived, 
and accordingly he paid the cab — half a crown it cost him — 
and was ushered by the woman with a simper into the gilded 
drawing-room. 

Here the Tiger had -another brandy and soda, after which 
George thought that she was about in a fit state for him to 
prosecute his inquiries. 

“ Wonderful place this London, marm ; I niver was up here 
afore, and had no idea that I should find folks so friendly. 
As I was a-saying to my friend Laryer Quest down at Bois- 
ingham yesterday ” 

“ Hulio ! wdiat’s that ? ” she said. “ Do you know the old 
man?” 

“If you mean Laryer Quest, why, in course I do, and Mrs. 
Quest too. Ah, she’s a pretty one, she is.” 

Here the lady burst into a flood of incoherent abuse, which 
tired her so much that she had a fourth brandy and soda. 
George mixed it for her, and he mixed it strong. 


176 - 


COLONEL QVARITCH, 7 , 0 . 


‘‘ Is lie rich ? ” she asked, as she put down the glass. 

“ What, Laryer Quest ? Well, I should say that he is 
about the warmest man in our part of the county.” 

“ And here am I starving,” burst out the horrible woman 
with a flood of drunken tears. “Starving without a shilling to 
pay for a cab or a drink, while my wedded husband lives in 
luxury with another woman. You tell him that I won’t stand 
it ; you tell him that if he don’t find a ‘ thou ’ pretty quick. 
I’ll let him know the reason why.” 

“I don’t quite understand, inarm,” said George. “ There’s 
a lady down in Boisingham as is the real Mrs. Quest.” 

“ It’s a lie ! ” she shrieked — “ it’s a lie ! he married me before 
he maiTied her. I could have him in the dock to-rnorrow, 
and I would, too, if I wasn’t afraid of him, and that’s a fact.” 

Come, inarm, come,” said George, “ draw it mild from 
that tap.” 

“ You won’t believe me, won’t you ? ” said the woman, on 
whom the liquor was now beginning to take its full effect ; 
“ then I’ll show you,” and she staggered to a desk, unlocked 
it, and took from it a folded paper, which she opened. 

It was a marriage license, or purported so to be ; but 
George, who was not too quick at his reading, had only time 
to note the name Quest, and the church, St. Bartholomew’s, 
Hackne}^ when she snatched it away from him, and locked it 
up again. 

“ There ! ” said she ; “it isn’t any business of yours. 
What right have you to come prying into the affairs of a 
poor lone woman ? ” and she sat down upon the sofa beside 
him, threw her long arm round his neck, rested her painted 
face upon his shoulder, and began to weep the tears of in- 
toxication. 

“ Well, blow me ! ” said George to himself, “if, this, an ’t a 
master one ! I wonder what my old missus would say if she 
saw me in this fix ? I say, marm ” 

Blit at that moment the door opened, and in came Johnnie, 
who had evidently also been employing the interval in refresh- 
ing himself, for he rolled like a ship in a sea. 

“ Well,” he said, “and who the deuce are you? Come, 
get out of this, you Methody parson-faced clodhopper, you ! 
Fairest Edithia, what means this? ” 

By this time the fairest Edithia had realized who her visitor 
was, and the trick whereby he had left her to pay for the 
brandy and soda recurring to her mind, she sprang up and 
began to express her opinion of Johnnie in violent and libel- 
lous language. He replied m approi)riate terms, as people 


COLONEL qUARlTGH, V.G. 


177 


whose healths are proposed always do, according to the 
newspaper reports, and fast and furious grew the fun. At 
length, however, it seemed to occur to Johnnie that he, 
George, was in some way responsible for this state of affairs, 
for without word or warning he hit him on the nose — which 
proved too much for George’s Christian forbearance. 

“You would, you fat lubber, would you?” he said, and 
sprang at him. 

Now Johnnie was big and fat, but Johnnie was rather 
drunk, and George was tough and exceedingly strong. In 
almost less time than it takes to write it he had the abomi- 
nable Johnnie by the scruff of the neck, and had with a 
mighty jerk hauled him over the sofa, so that he lay face 
downward thereon. By the door, quite convenient to his 
hand, stood George’s ground-ash stick — a peculiarly good 
and well grown one, which he had cut himself in Honham 
wood. He seized it. “Now, my lad,” he said, “ I’ll teach 
you hoAV we do the trick where I come from,” and he laid 
on without mercy. Whack! whack! whack ! went the gi'oimd- 
ash on Johnnie’s tight clothes. He yelled and swore and 
struggled in the grip of the sturdy countryman ; but it Avas 
of no use, the ash came doAvn like fate ; never was a 
Johnnie so bastinadoed before. 

“Give it the brute, give it him,” shrilled the fairEdithia, 
bethinking her of her wTongs, and he did till he was tired. 

“ Noav, Johnnie,” he said at last, “ I’m thinking I’ve pretty 
Avell Avhacked you dead. Perhaps you’ll be more careful hoAv 
you handle your betters by-and-by ; ” and seizing his hat, he 
ran down the stairs without seeing anybody, and slipping 
into the street, crossed over and listened. 

They were at it again. Seeing her enemy prostrate, the 
Tiger had fallen on him, apparently with the fire-irons, to 
judge from the noise. 

Just then a policeman came hurrying up. 

“ I say, governor,” said George, “ the folk in that there house 
Avith the red pillars do fair to be a-murdering of each other.” 

The policeman listened to the din, and then made for the 
house, and, profiting by his absence, George retreated as fast 
as he could, his melancholy countenance shining with a sober 
satisfaction. 

12 


178 


COLONEL qUARITGH, Ka 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

EDWAED COSSEY MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT, 

This is not a very cheerful world at the best of times, though 
no doubt we ought to pretend that humanity at large is as 
happy as it is represented to be — in let us say the Christmas 
number of an illustrated paper. How well we can imagine 
the thoughtful inhabitants of this country in the year a.d. 
7500 or thereabouts disinterring from the crumbling remains 
of a fire-proof safe a Christmas number of the Illaslrated Lon- 
don News or the Graphic! The archaic letters w^ould per- 
haps be unintelligible to him, but he w^ould look at the pic- 
tures with much the same interest that we regard bushmen’s 
drawings or the primitive clay figures of Peru ; and though 
his whole artistic seventy-sixth-century soul would be re- 
volted at the crudeness of the colorinj^, surely he would 
moralize thus : “ O happy race of primitive men, how I, the 
child of light and civilization, envy you your long-forgotten 
days ! Here in these rude drawings, which in themselves re- 
veal the extraordinary capacity for pleasure possessed by the 
early races, who could even look upon them and gather grati- 
fication from the sight, may we trace your joyous career from 
the cradle to the grave. Here is your figure as a babe, at 
whose appearance everybody seems delighted, even those of 
your race whose inheritance will be thereby diminished ; and 
here a merry lad, you revel in the school wdiich those of our 
age find so wearisome ; there, grown more old, you stand at 
the altar of a beautiful lost faith, a faith that told of hope and 
peace beyond the grave, and by you stands your blushing 
bride. No hard fate, no considerations of means, no worldly- 
mindedness, come to snatch you from her arms, as now they 
daily do. With her you spend your peaceful days, and here 
at last we see you, old but surrounded by love and tender 
kindness, and almost looking forward to that grave which you 
believed would be but the 'jgate of glory. O happy race of 
simple-minded men, what a commentary upon our fevered, 
avaricious, pleasure-seeking age is this rude scroll of primi- 
tive and infantile art ! ” 

So will some unborn laudator temporis acti speak in some 
dim century to be, when our sorrows have faded and are not. 

And yet, though we do not put a record of them in our 
Christmas uumbers, troubles are as troubles have been and 


COLONEL qUARITCHy V.C. 


179 


will continually be, for however happy the lot of individuals, 
it is not altogether a cheerful world in which we have been 
called to live. At any rate so thought Harold Quaritch that 
night after the farewell scene with Ida in the churchyard, and 
so he continued to think for some time to come. A man’s 
life is always more or less of a struggle ; he is a swimmer 
upon an adverse sea, and to live at all he must keep his limbs 
, in motion. If he grows faint-hearted or weary and no longer 
strives, for a little while he floats, and then at last, morally or 
physically he vanishes. We struggle for our livelihoods, ancl 
for all that makes life worth living in the material sense, and 
not the less are we called upon to struggle with an army of 
spiritual woes and fears, which now we vanquish and ifbw are 
vanquished by. Every man of refinement, and a good many 
women, will be able to recall periods in his or her existence 
when life has seemed not only valueless but hateful, when our 
small successes, such as they are, dwindled awa}'’ and vanish- 
ed in the gulf of our many failures, when our hopes and as- 
pirations faded like a little sunset cloud, and we were sur- 
rounded by black and lonely mental night, from which even 
the star of Faith had passed. Such a time had come to 
Harold Quaritch now. His days had not, on the whole, been 
happy days ; but he was a good and earnest man, with that 
touching faith in Providence which is given to some among 
us, and which had brought with it the reward of an even, 
thankful spirit. • And then, out of the twilight of his content- 
ment the hope of happiness had arisen like the Angel of the 
Dawn, and suddenly life became beautiful to him. And now 
it had passed : the woman whom he deeply loved, and who 
loved him back again, had gone from his reach and left him 
desolate — gone from his reach, not into the grave, but to the 
arms of another man. 

Our race is called upon to face many troubles, sickness, 
poverty and death, but it is doubtful if Evil holds another 
arrow as sharj) as that which pierced him now. He was no 
longer young, it is true, and therefore did not feel that in- 
tense agony of disappointed passion, that sickening sense of 
utter loss which in such circumstances sometimes settle on 
the young. But if in youth we feel more sharply and with a 
keener sympathy of the imagination, we have at least- more 
strength to bear, and hope does not altogether die. For we 
know that we shall live it down, or if we do not know it 
then, we do live it down. Very likely, indeed, there comes a 
time when we look back upon our sorrow and he or she who 
caused it with wonder, yes, even with scorn and bitter laugh- 


180 


COLONEL qUARlTGH, V.G. 


ter. But it is not so when the blow falls in later life. It may 
not hurt so much at the time, it may seem to have been 
struck with the bludgeon of Fate rather than with the keen 
dividing sword, but the effect is more lasting, and for the 
rest of our days we are numb and cold, and Time has no 
salve to heal us. 

These things Harold realized more clearly in the heav}^ days 
that followed that church-yard separation. 

He took his punishment like a brave man, indeed, and 
went about his daily occupations with a steadfast face, but this 
bold behavior did not lesson its weight. He had promised 
not to go away till Ida was mamed, and he would keep the 
promise, but in his heart he wondered' how he would be able 
to bear the sight of her. What would it be to see her, to 
touch her hand, to hear the rustle of her dress and the mu- 
sic of her beloved voice, and to realize again and yet again 
that all these things were not for him, that they had passed 
from him into the ownership of another man ? 

On the day following that upon which Edward Cossey had 
been terrified into transferring the Honham mortgages to 
Mr. Quest, the Colonel went out shooting. He had on the 
previous day become the possessor of a new hammerless gun 
by a well-known London maker, of which he stood in consid- 
erable need. He had treated himself to this gun when 
he came into his aunt’s little fortune, but it was only just 
completed. The weapon was a beautiful one, and at any 
other time it would have filled his sportsman’s heart with joy. 
Even as it was, when he put it together, and balanced it, and 
took imaginary shots at blackbirds in the garden, for a little 
v^hile he forgot his sorrows, for tlie sorrow must indeed be 
heavy which a new hammerless gun by such a maker cannot 
do something toward lightening. So on the next morning he 
took this gun and proceeded to the marshes by the river, where, 
he was credibly informed, several wisps of snipe had been 
seen, to attempt to shoot some of them and put the new w^eap- 
on t^ the test. 

It was on this same morning that Edward Cossey got a 
letter which disturbed him not a little. It was from Belle 
Quest, and ran thus : 

“Dear Mr. Cossey, — Will you come over and see me this 
afternoon about three o’clock ? I shall expect you, so I am 
sure you will not disappoint me. — B. Q.” 

For a long while he hesitated what to do. Belle Quest was 
at the present juncture the very last person whom he wished 
to see. His nerves v/ere shaken and he feared a scene, but 


COLONEL qUARITCn, V.C. 


181 


on the other hand he did not know what danger might threaten 
him if he did not go. Quest had got his price, and he knew 
that he had nothing more to fear from him; but a jealous 
woman has no price, and if he did not humor her, it might, 
he felt, be at a ilsk which he could not estimate. Also he 
was nervously anxious to give no further cause for gossip. A 
sudden outward and visible cessation of his intimacy with the 
Quests in a little country town like Boisingham, where all his 
movements were known, might, he thought, give rise to sur- 
mises and suspicion. So, albeit with a faint heart, he deter- 
mined to go. 

Accordingly, at three o’clock precisely, he was shown into 
the drawing-room at the Oaks. Mrs. Quest was not there 
indeed, he waited for ten minutes before she came in. She ^ 
very pale, so pale that the blue veins on her forehead sh' 
distinctly through her ivory skin, and there was a curir 
tensity about her manner which frightened him. 
very quiet, unnaturally so, indeed ; but her qu’ 
ominous nature of the silence before the sto'^" 
spoke her words were keen and quick and ' 

She did not sha'ke hands with him, but 
at him, slowly fanning herself with a pai 
she took up from the table. 

“ You sent for me, Belle, and here I * 
the silence. 

Then she spoke. “ You told m 
“ that you were not engaged to 
It was not true. You are engp 
“ Who said so ? ” he asked, ( 

"T have it on a better aut^ 
it from Miss De la Molle h 
sey. When I let you go I m 
dition was that you should r 
you still intend to marry he 
“ You had it from Ida ? ” 
tion. “ Then you must ha^ 
told her everything. I sr 
the other night. You — 

“ Then it is true,” sh» 
in addition to your oth 
and — a liar.” 

“What is it to y 
answered, savagely, 
have no hold over vr 
suffered enough a^ 


182 COLONEL qUARITCE, V.O. 

husband. I have had to pay him thirty thousand pounds, do 
you know that ? But of course you know it. No doubt the 
whole thing is a plant, and you will share the spoil.’’ 

“Ah ! ” she said, drawing a long breath. 

“And now look here,” he went on. “Once and for all, I 
will not be interfered with by you. I am engaged to marry 
Ida Be la Molle, and whether you wish it or no I shall marry 
her. And one more thing. I will not allow you to associate 
with Ida. Do you understand me ? I will not allow- it.” 

She had been holding the fan before her face while he 
spoke. Now she lowered it and looked at him. Her face 
was paler than ever, paler than death, if that be possible, but 
'XL her eyes there shone a light like the light of a flame. 

“ Why not ? ” she said quietly. 

Why not ? ” he answered, savagely. “ I wonder that you 
it necessary to ask such a question, but as you do, I 
'ou why. Because Ida is the lady whom I am going 
'' I do not choose that she should associate with 
• what you are.” 

^ again ; “I understand now.” 

diversion occurred. The drawing-room 
ien, and at the end of the garden was a 
1 to another street. 

ad come Colonel Quaritch, accompanied 
r with his gun under his arm. They 
' and were almost at the French 
’ saw them. “ Control yourself,” 
is your husband.” 
eked at the window”, which his 
■ward Cossey he hesitated a 
vhile the Colonel came fer- 
tile wall, entered the room, 
nd bowed coldly to Edward 

id Mr. Quest, “ coming here 
riving you some snipe, so I 

onel Quaritch,” said she, 
’eetest smile imaginable), 
nething about her face 
ig unusual. 

;ed. 

re out of hearing of 
minded I should say 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 183 

“Do I?” she answered, bursting out laughing. “Well, 
that is curious, because I feel like Comedy herself.” 

“ There’s something wrong with that woman,” thought the 
Colonel to himself as he extracted two couple of snipe from 
his capacious coat tails. “ I wonder what it is ?” 

Just then Mr. Quest and Edward Cossey passed out into 
the garden, talking. 

“ Here are the snipe, Mrs. Quest,” he said. “ I have had 
rather good luck. I killed four couple and missed two couple 
more ; but then I had a new gun, and one can never shoot so 
well with a new gun.” 

“Oh, thank you,” she said. “Do pull out the ‘painters’ 
for me. I like to put them in my riding hat, and I never can 
find them myself.” 

“Very well,” he answered; “but I must go into the 
garden to do it ; there is not light enough here. It gets 
dark so soon now.” 

Accordingly he stepped out through the window, and 
began to hunt for the pretty little feathers which are to be 
found at the angle of a snipe’s wing. 

“ Is that the new gun. Colonel Quaritch ? ” said Mrs. Quest, 
presently. “'What a beautiful one ! ” • 

“Be careful,” he said; “I haven’t taken the cartridges 
out.” 

If he had been looking at her, which at the moment he 
was not, Harold would have seen her stagger and catch at the 
wall for support. Then he would have seen an awful and 
malevolent light of sudden determination pass across her 
face. 

“ All right,” she said ; “ I know all about guns. My father 
used to shoot, and I always cleaned his gun,” and she took 
the weapon up and began to examine the engraving on the 
locks. 

“ What is this ?” she said, pointing to a little slide above 
the locks on which the word “Safe” was engraved in gold 
letters. 

“ Oh, that’s the safety-bolt,” he said. “ When you see the 
word ‘ Safe,’ the locks are barred, and the gun won’t go off. 
You have to push the bolt forward before you can fire.” 

“ So ? ” she said, carelessly, and suiting the action to the 
word. 

“ Yes, so ; but please be careful, the gun is loaded.” 

“Yes, I’ll be careful,” she answered. “Well, it is a very 
pretty gun, and so light that I believe I could shoot with it 


184 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


Meanwhile Edward Cossey and Mr. Quest, who were walk- 
ing toward them, had separated, Mr. Quest going to the right 
across the lawn to pick up a glove which had dropped upon 
the grass, while Edward Cossey slowly sauntered toward them. 
When he was about nine paces off he too halted, and stoop- 
ing a little, looked abstractedly at a white Japanese chrysan- 
themum which was still in bloom. Mrs. Quest turned, as the 
Colonel thought, to put the gun back against the wall. He 
would have offered to take it from her, but at the moment 
both his hands were occupied in extracting one of the “paint- 
ers ” from a snipe. The next thing that he was aware of was 
a loud explosion, followed by an exclamation, or rather a cry, 
from Mrs. Quest. He dropped the snipe and looked up, just 
in time to see the gun, which had leapt from her hands with 
the recoil, strike against the wall of the house and fall to the 
ground. Instantly, whether by instinct or by chance he never 
knew, he glanced toward the place where Edward Cossey was 
standing, and saw that his face was streaming with blood, and 
that his right arm hung helpless by his side. Even as he 
looked, he saw him put his uninjured hand to his head, and 
without a word or a sound sink down on the gravel-path.. 

For a second fhere was silence, and the blue smoke from 
the gun hung heavily upon the damp autumn air. In the 
midst of it stood Belle Quest like one transfixed, her lips 
apart, her blue eyes opened wide, and the stamp of terror — 
or was it guilt ? — upon her pallid face. 

All this he saw in a flash, and then ran to the bleeding heap 
upon the gravel. 

He reached it almost simultaneously with Mr. Quest, and 
together they turned the body over. But still Belle stood 
there enveloped in the heavy smoke. 

Presently, however, her trance left her, and she ran up, 
flung herself upon her knees, and looked at her former lover, 
whose face and head were now a mass of blood. 

“He is dead,” she wailed- — “ he is dead, and I have killed 
him ! Oh, Edward ! Edward ! ” 

Mr. Quest turned on her savagely — so savagely that one 
might almost have thought that he feared lest in her agony 
she should say something further. 

“ Stop that,” he said, seizing her arm, “ and go for the 
doctor, for if he is not dead he will soon bleed to d^eath.” 

With an effort she rose, put her hand to her forehead, and 
then ran like the wind down the garden and through the little 
door. 


COLONEL QITARITGH, V,G. 


185 


CHAPTEE XXX. 

HAROLD TAKES THE NEWS. 

Mr, Quest and Harold bore the bleeding man — whether he 
was senseless or dead they knew not — into the house, and laid 
him on the sofa. Then, having despatched a servant to seek 
a second doctor in case the one already gone for was out, they 
set to work to cut the clothes from his neck and arm and do 
what they could, and that was little enough, toward stanching 
the bleeding. It soon, however, became evident that Cossey 
had only got the outside portion of the charge of No. 7 — that 
is to say, that he had been struck by abo,ut a hundred pellets 
out of the three hundred or so which would go to the ordin- 
ary ounce and an eighth. Had he received the 'whole charge 
he must, at that distance, have been instantly killed. As it 
w'as, the j)oint of the shoulder was riddled, and so to a some- 
what smaller extent was the back of his neck and the region 
of the right ear. ' One or two outside pellets had also struck 
the head higher uj;), and the skin and muscles along the back 
were torn by the passage of the shot. 

‘‘ By Jove,” said Mr. Quest, “I think he is done for ! ” 

The Colonel nodded. He. had had some experience of shot 
wounds, and the present was not of a nature to encourage 
hoj)e of the patient’s survival. 

“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Quest, presently, as he 
mopped up the streaming blood with a sponge. 

“It was an accident,” groaned the Colonel. “Your wdfe 
was looking at my new gun. I told her that it was loaded, 
and that she must be careful, and I thought she had put it 
down. The next thing that I heard was the report. It is all 
my cursed fault for leaving the cartridges in.” 

“Ah,” said Mr. Quest. “ She always thought that she un- 
derstood guns. It is a shocking accident.” 

Just then one of the doctors came running up the lawn, 
carrying a box of instruments, and followed by Belle Quest, 
and in another minute was at work. He was a quick and 
skilful surgeon, and having announced that the patient was 
not dead, at once set to work to tie one of the smaller arteries 
in the throat, which had been pierced, and through which 
Edward Cossey was rapidly bleeding to death. By the time 
that this was done the other doctor, an older man, put in an 
appearance, and together they made a rapid examination of 
the injuries. 


186 


COLONEL QUABITCn, V.G, 


Belle stood by holding a basin of water. She did not 
speak, and on her face was that same fixed look of horror 
which Harold had observed after the discharge of the gun. ^ 

When the examination was finished the two doctors whis- 
pered together for a few seconds. 

“ Will he live ? ” asked Mr. Quest. 

“We cannot say,” answered the older doctor. “We do not 
think it probable that he will. It will depend upon the extent 
of the injuries, and whether or no they have extended to the 
spine. If he does live he will probably be paral3'zed to some 
extent, and he will certainly lose the hearing of the right ear.” 

When' she heard this, Belle sank down upon a chair over- 
whelmed, and then the two doctors, assisted by Harold, set to 
work to carry Edward Cossey into another room, which had 
been rapidly prepared, leaving Mr. Quest alone with his wife. 

He came and stood in front of her and looked her in the 
face, and then laughed. “ Upon my word,” he said, “ we men 
are bad enough, but you women beat us in wickedness.” 

“What do you mean?” she said, faintly. 

“I mean that j^ou are a murderess. Belle,” he said, solemn- 
ly. “And you are a bungler too. You could not hold the 
gun straight.” 

“ I deny it,” she said : “ the gun went off ” 

“Yes,” he said, “j'ou are wise to make no admissions; 
they might be used in evidence against you. Let me counsel 
you to make no admissions. But now look here. I suppose 
that this man will have to lie in this house until he recovers 
or dies, and that you will help to nurse him. Well, I will 
have none of your murderous work going on here. Do you 
hear me ? You are not to complete at leisure what you have 
begun in haste.” 

“ What do you take me for?” she asked, with some return 
of spirit. “ Do you think I would injure a wounded man ?” 

“I do not know,” he answered, with a shrug ; “and as for 
what I take you for, I take you for a woman whose passion 
has made her mad,” and he turned and left the room. 

When they had got Edward Cossey, dead or alive — and he 
looked more like death than life — up to the room prepared 
for him, the Colonel, seeing that he could be of no further 
use, left him, with a view of going at once to the castle. 

On his way out he looked into the drawing-room, and there 
was Mrs. Quest, still sitting on the chair and gazing blankly 
before her. Pitying her, he entered. “ Come, cheer up, 
Mrs. Quest,” he said, kindly ; “ they hope that he will live.” 

She made no answer. 


COLONEL qUARlTCH, V.O. 


187 


“ It is an awful accident, but I am almost as culpable as 
you, for I left the cartridges in the gun. Anyhow, God’s will 
be done ! ” 

“ God’s will ! ” she said, looking up, and then once more 
relapsed into silence. 

He turned to go, when suddenly she rose and caught him 
by the arm. 

“Will he die?” she said, almost fiercely. “Tell me what 
you think — not what the doctors say — you have seen lots of 
wounded men and know better than they do. Tell me the 
truth.” 

“ I cannot say,” he answered, shaking his head. 

Apparently she interpreted his answer as yes. At any rate 
she covered her face with her hands. 

“ What would you do, Colonel Quaritch, if you had killed 
the only thing you loved in the whole world ? ” she asked, 
presently. “Oh, what am I saying? — I am off my head. 
Leave me, and go and tell Ida ; itwill be good new'sfor Ida.” 

Accordingly, having picked up the gun from the spot 
where it had fallen from the hands of Mrs. Quest, he started 
for the castle. 

And then it was that for the first time there flashed upon 
his mind the extraordinary importance of this dreadful acci- 
dent in its bearing upon his own affairs. If Cossey died he 
could marry Ida, that was clear. That was what Mrs. 
Quest must have meant when she said that it would be good 
news for Ida. But how did she know an^'thing about Ida’s 
engagement to Edward Cossey ? And, by Jove ! what did the 
woman mean when she asked what he would do if he had 
killed the only thing he loved in the world ? Cossey must 
be the “ only thing she loved ; ” and now he thought of it, 
when she believed that he was dead she called him “Ed- 
ward, Edward.” 

Now Harold Quaritch was as simple and unsuspicious a 
man as it would be easy to find, but he was no fool. He had 
moved about the world, and on various occasions come in con- 
tact wdth cases of this sort, as most other men have done. 
He knew that when a woman, in a moment of distress, calls 
a man by his Christian name, it is because she is in the habit 
of thinking of him and speaking of him by that name. Not 
that there was much in that by itself, but in public she called 
him “Mr. Cossey.” “Edward,” clearly, then, was the “only 
thing she loved and Edward was secretly engaged to Ida, 
and Mrs. Quest knew it. 

Now when a man has the fortune, or rather the misfortune, 


188 


COLONEL qVARITCH, V.G. 


to be the only thing a married woman ever loved, and when 
that married woman is aware of the fact of his devotion for 
and engagement to somebody else, it is obvious, he reflected, 
that in nine cases out of ten the knowledge will excite strong 
feelings in her breast — feelings, indeed, which in some na- 
tures would amount almost to madness. 

When he had first seen Mrs. Quest that afternoon she and 
Cossey were alone together, and he had noticed something 
unusual about her, something unnatural and intense. Indeed 
he had, he remembered, told her that she looked like the 
Tragic Muse. Could it be that the look was the look of a 
woman maddened by insult and jealousy, who was meditating 
some fearful crime? How did that gun go off? He did not 
see it, and he thanked God that he did not, for somehow we 
are not always as anxious to bring our fellow-creatures to 
justice as we might be, especially when they happen to be 
young and lovely women. How did it go off? She under- 
stood guns ; he could see that from the way she handled it. 
Was it likely that it exploded of itself, or owing to an acci- 
dental touch of the trigger ? It was possible, but not likely. 
Still, such things had been known to happen, and it would 
be impossible to prove that it had not happened in this case. 
If it was an attempted murder it was very cleverly managed, 
because nobody could prove that it was not accidental. But 
could it be that that soft, beautiful, baby-faced woman had, 
on the spur of the moment, taken advantage of his loaded 
gun to wreak her jealousy and her wrongs upon her faithless 
lover ? Well, the face is no mirror of the quality of the soul 
within, and it was possible. Further than that it did not 
seem to him to be his business to inquire. 

By this time he was at the castle. The Squire was out, but 
Ida was in, and he was shown into the drawing-room while 
the servant went to seek her. Presently he heard her dress 
rustle upon the stairs, and the sound of it sent the blood to 
his heart, for where is the music that is more sweet than the 
rustling of the dress of the woman whom we love? 

She came in and shook hands with him. “ Why, what is 
the matter ? ” she said, noticing the disturbed expression on 
his face. 

“ Well,” he said, “ there has been an accident — a very bad 
accident.” 

“ Who ?” she said. “Not my father ?” 

“ No, no ; Mr. Cossey.” 

“ Oh,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “ Whv did you 
frighten me so ? ” 


COLONEL qUABITCH, V.C 


189 


The Colonel smiled grimly at this unconscious exhibition 
of the relative state of her affections. 

“ What has happened to him ?” asked Ida, this time with 
a suitable expression of concern. 

“He has been accidentally shot.” 

“By whom?” 

“Mrs. Quest.” 

“ Then she did it on purpose — I mean — is he dead ? ” 

“No ; but I believe he will die.” 

They looked at each other, and each read in the eyes of the 
other the thought which passed through their brain. If 
Edward Cossey died they would be free to marry. So clearly 
did they read it that Ida actually interpreted it in words. 

“You must not think that,” she said; “it is very wrong.” 

“It is wrong,” answered the Colonel, apparently in no way 
surprised at her interpretation of his thoughts, “but unfor- 
tunately human nature is human nature.” 

• Then he went on to tell her all about it. Ida made no 
comment, that ih, after those first words, “ she did it on pur- 
pose,” which burst from her in her astonishment. She felt, 
and he felt too, that the question as to how that gun went 
off was one which was best left uninquired into by them. No 
doubt if the man died there would be an inquest, and the 
whole matter would be investigated. Meanwhile* one thing 
was certain : Edward Cossey, whom she was engaged to, was 
shot and likely to die. 

Presently, while they were still talking, the Squire came in 
from his walk, and to him also the story was told, and to 
judge from the expression of his face he thought it a serious 
one enough. If Edward Cossey died, the mortgages over 
the Honhain property would, as he thought, of course pass to 
his heir, who, unless he had made a will, which was not pro- 
bable, would be his father, old Mr. Cossey, the banker, from 
whom Mr. De la Molle well knew he had little mercy to ex- 
pect. This was serious enough, and what was still more 
seribus ’was that all the bright prospects in which he had for 
some days been basking of the re-establishment of his family 
upon a securer basis than it had occupied for generations 
would vanish like a vision. Now he was not more worldly- 
minded than other men, but he did most fondly cherish the 
natural desire to see the family fortunes once more in the as- 
cendant. The projected marriage betw^een his daughter and 
Edward Cossey would have most fully brought this about, 
and however much he might in his secret heart distrust the 
man himself, and doubt whether the match was really accept- 


190 


COLONEL qUAniTCB, V.C, 


able to Ida, he could not view its collapse with indifference. 
While they were still talking the dressing-bell rang, and Har- 
old rose to go. 

“ Stop and dine, won’t you, Quaritch ? ” said the Squire. 

• Harold hesitated and looked at Ida. She made no move- 
ment, but her eyes said “ stay,” and he sighed and yielded. 
Dinner was rather a melancholy feast, for the Squire was pre- 
occupied with his own thoughts, and Ida had not much to 
say, while, so far as the Colonel was concerned, the recollec- 
tion of the tragedy which he had witnessed that afternoon, 
and of all the dreadful details with which it was accompanied, 
was not conducive to appetite. 

As soon as dinner was over the Squire announced that he 
would walk into Boisingham to inquire how the wounded 
man was getting on, and shortly afterward he started, leaving 
his daughter and tbe Colonel alone. 

They went into the drawing-room and talked about indif- 
ferent things. No word of love passed between them ; no 
word, indeed that could bear even an affectionate significance, 
and yet every sentence they said carried a message with it, 
and was as heavy with unuttered passion as a bee with honey. 
For they loved each other dearly, and love is a thing that 
cannot be concealed by lovers from each other. Like the air 
impalpable, it is like the air surrounding, and to those who 
breathe it necessary and real. 

It was happiness to him merely to sit beside her and hear 
her speak, and watch the changes of her face, and the lamp- 
light playing upon her hair, and it was hapihness to her to 
know that he was sitting there and watching. For the most 
beautiful thing about deep affection is its accompanying sense 
of perfect companionship and rest, a sense that nothing else 
in this life can give, and which, like a lifting cloud, reveals a 
glimpse of the white peaks of that heavenly peace that we 
cannot hope to tread in our stormy journey through the 
world. 

And so the evening wore away till at last they heard the 
Squire’s loud voice talking to somebody outside. Presently 
he entered. 

“ How is he ? ” asked Harold. “ Will he live ? ” 

“They cannot say,” was the answer. “ But two great doc- 
tors have been telegraphed for from London, and will be 
down to-morrow.” 


COLONEL QUARITCE, KC. 


191 


CHAPTER XXXL 

IDA RECANTS. 

I The two pfreat doctors came, and the two great doctors 
pocketed their hundred-guinea fee, and went, but neither the 
one nor the other, nor eke the twain, would commit them- 
selves to a fixed opinion as to Edward Cossey’s chances of 
life or death. However, one of them picked out? a number of 
shot from the wounded man, and a number more he left in 
because he could not pick them out, and they both agreed that 
the treatment of their humble local brethren was all that could 
be desired, and so far as they were concerned there was an 
end of it. 

A week had passed, and Edward Cossey, nursed night and 
day by Belle Quest, still hovered between life and death. 

It was a Thursday, and Harold had walked up to the Castle 
to give the Squire the latest news of the wounded man. 
While he was in the vestibule telling what he had to tell to 
Mr. De la Molle and Ida, a man whom he recognized as one 
of Mr. Quest’s clerks rang the bell. He was shown in, and 
handed the Squire a fully addressed brief envelope, w^hich, he 
said, he had been told to deliver by Mr. Quest, and, saying 
that there was no answer, bowed himself out. 

As soon as he was gone the envelope was opened by Mr. 
De la Molle, who took from it two legal documents which he 
went on to read. Suddenly the first dropped from his hand, 
and with an exclamation he snatched at the secoild. 

“ What is it, father? ” asked Ida. 

“What is it? Why it’s just this. Edward Cossey has 
transferred the mortgages over this property to Quest, the 
lawyer, and Quest has served a notice on me calling in the 
money,” and he began to walk up and down the room in a 
state of great agitation. 

“I don’t quite understand,” said Ida, her breast heaving, and 
with a curious light shining in her eyes. 

“ Don’t you ? ” said her father ; “ then perhaps you will 
read that,” and he pushed the papers to her. As he did so 
.another letter which he had not observed fell out of them. 

At this point Harold rose to go. 

“ Don’t go, Quaritch, don’t go,” said the Squire. “ I shall 
be glad of your advice, and I am sure that what you hear will 
not go any further.” 

At the same time Ida motioned him to stay, and though 
somewhat unwilling, he did so. 


192 


COLONEL qUARITGH, V.G. 


“ Dear Sir [began the Squire, reading the letter aloud] : 
Enclosed you will find the usual formal notices calling in the 
sum of thirty thousand pounds, recently advanced upon mort- 
gage of the Honham Castle Estates, by Edward Cos^ey, Esq. 
These mortgages have passed into my possession for value, 
received, and it is now my desire to realize them. I most 
deeply regret being forced to press an old client, but my cir- 
cumstances are such that I am obliged so to do. If I can in 
any way facilitate your efforts to raise the money I shall be 
very glad to do so, but in the event of the money not being 
forthcoming at the end of the six months’ notice, the ordinary 
steps will be taken to realize by foreclosure. 

“ I am, dear sir, yours truly, 

“W. Quest. 

James De la Molle, Esq., J. P.” 

“I see now",” said Ida ; “ Mr. Cossey has no further hold on 
the mortgages or on the property.” 

“That’s it,” said the Squire ; “he has transferred them to 
that rascally lawyer. And yet he told me — I can’t under- 
stand it, I really can’t.” ' 

At this point the Colonel insisted ' upon departing, saying 
that he would call in again in the evening to see if he could 
be of any assistance. When he was gone Ida spoke in a cold, 
determined voice. 

“ Mr. Cossey told me that when we married he w'ould put 
those mortgages in the fire. It now seems that the mortgages 
were not his to dispose of, or else that he has since trans- 
ferred them to Mr. Quest without informing us.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said the Squire. 

“Very well,” said Ida. “And now% father, I will tell you 
something. I engaged myself: — or, to be more accurate, I 
promised to engage myself — to Edward Cossey, on the condi- 
tion that he would take up these mortgages when Cossey & 
Son were threatening to foreclose, or whatever it is called.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” said her astonished father, “ what an 
idea ! ” 

“I did it,” went on Ida, “and he took up the mortgages, 
and in due course he claimed my promise, and I became en- 
gaged to marry him, though that engagement was most re- 
pugnant to me. You will see that, having persuaded him to 
advance the money, I could not refuse to carry out my share 
of the bargain.” 

“Well,” said the Squire, “ this is all news to me.” 

“Yes,” she answered, “and I should never have told you 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


193 


I of it, had it not been for this sudden change in the position 
I of affairs. What I did, I did to save our family from ruin. 
‘ But now it seems that Mr. Cossey has played us false, and 
I that we are to be ruined after all. Therefore, the condition 
upon which I promised to marry him has not been earned out, 
and my promise falls to the ground.” 

“You mean, that, supposing he lives, you will not marry 
Edward Cossey.” ^ ^ . 

“Yes, I do mean it.” 

The Squire thought for a minute. “ This is a very serious 
step, Ida,” he said. “ I don’t mean that I think that the man 
I has behaved well ; but still he may have given up the mort- 
I gages to Quest under pressure of some sort, and might be 
' willing to find the money to meet them.” 

“I do not care if he finds the money ten times over,” said 
Ida, “ I will not marry him. He has not kept to the letter of 
his bond, and I will not keep to mine.” 

“ It is all very well, Ida,” said the Squire, “ and of course 
nobody can force you into a distasteful marriage, but I wish 
to point out to you one thing. You have your family to think 
of as well as yourself. I tell you frankly that I do not believe 
that, as times are, it will be possible to raise thirty thousand 
pounds to pay off the charges, unless it is by the help of 
Edward Cossey. So, if he lives — and as he has lasted so 
long I expect that he will live — and you refuse to go on 
with your engagement to him, we shall be sold up, and that 
is all ; for that fellow. Quest, confound him, will show us no 
mercy.” 

“I know it, father,” answered Ida, “ but I cannot and will 
not marry him, and I do not think you can expect me to. I 
got engaged, or rather promised to get engaged to him, be- 
cause I thought that one woman had no right to put her own 
happiness before the welfare of an old family like ours, and I 
would have carried out that engagement at any cost. But 
since then, to tell you the truth,” and she blushed deeply, 
“ not only have I learned to dislike him a great deal more, but 
I have come to care for some one else who also cares for me, 
and who therefore has a right to be considered. Think, father 
what it means to a woman to sell herself into bodily and men- 
tal bondage, when she cares for another man.” 

“Well, well,” said her fiither, with some irritation, “lam 
no authority upon matters of sentiment ; they are not in my 
line, and I know that women have their prejudices. Still you 
can’t expect me to look at the matter in quite the same light 
aa you do. And who is the gentleman — Colonel Quaritch ? ” 
13 


m 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.O. 


She nodded her head. 

“ Oh,” said the Squire, “ I have nothing to say against Quar- 
itch, indeed I like the man, but I suppose that if he has five 
hundred pounds a year, that is every sixpence he can count 
on.” 

“I had rather marry him upon five hundred a year than 
Edward Cossey upon fifty thousand.” 

“ Ah, yes, I have heard women talk like that before, though, 
perhaps, they think differently afterwards. Of course I have 
no right to obtrude myself, but when you are comfortably 
married, what is going to become of Honham I should like to 
know, and incidentally of me?” 

“ I don’t know, father, dear,” she answered, her eyes filling 
with tears ; “ we must trust to Providence, I suppose. I 
know you think me very selfish,” she went on, catching him 
by the arm, “ but, oh, father, there are things that are worse 
than death to women, or at least to some women. I almost 
think that I would rather die than marry Edward Cossey, 
though I would have gone through with it if he had kept his 
word.” 

“No, no,” said her father. “ I can’t wonder at it, and cer- 
tainly I do not ask you to marry a man you dislike. But still 
it is hard upon me to have all this trouble at my age, and 
the old place coming to the hammer too. It is enough to 
make a man wish that his troubles w'ere over altogether. 
However, we must take things as we find them, and we find 
them pretty rough. Quaritch said he was coming back this 
evening, didn’t he ? I suppose there will not be any public 
engagement at present, will there ? And look here, Ida, I 
don’t want him to come talking to me about it. I have got 
enough things of my own to think of without bothering my 
head about your love affairs. Pray let the thing be for the 
present. And now I am going out to see that fellow George, 
who hasn’t been here since he came back from London, and 
a nice bit of news it will be that I shall have to tell him.” 

When her father had gone Ida did a thing she had not 
done for some time, she wept a little. All her fine intentions 
of self-denial had broken down, and she felt humiliated at the 
fact. She had intended to sacrifice herself upon the altar 
of her duty, and to make herself the wedded wife of a man 
who was repugnant to her, and now, on the first opportunity, 
she had thrown up the contract on a quibble, a i3oint of law 
as it were. Nature had been too strong for her, as it often is 
for people with deep feelings ; she could not do it, no, not to 
save Honham from the hammer. When she had promised 


COLONEL qUARlTCE, V.O, 


195 


that she would engage herself to Edward Cossey she had not 
been in love with Colonel Quaritch ; now she was, and the 
difiference between the two states was considerable. Still the 
fall was a humiliating one to her pride, and, what is more, 
she felt that her father was disappointed in her. Of course 
she could not expect him at his age (when looked at through 
the mist of years all sentiment appears more or dess foolish) 
to enter into her private feelings. She knew very well that 
age strips men of those" finer sympathies and sensibilities 
which clothe them in youth, much as the winter frost and 
wind strips the delicate foliage from the trees. For to them 
the music of the world is dead. Love has vanished with the 
summer, dews, and in its place are cutting blasts and snows 
and sere memories rustling like fallen leaves about their feet. 
As we grow old we are apt to grow away from bpauty, and 
what is high and. pure ; our hearts harden by contact with 
the hard world ; we examine love and find, or think we find, 
that it is naught but, a variety of lust ; friendship, and think, 
it self-interest ; religion, and name it superstition. The facts 
of life alone remain clear and desirable. We know that money 
means power, and we turn our face to Mammon, and if he 
smiles uiDon us we are content to let our finer visions go 
where our youth has gone : 

“ Trailing clouds of glory do we come 
From God who is our home.” 

So says the poet, but, alas ! the clouds soon melt into the 
gray air of the world, and so any of us, before our course is 
finished, forget that they ever were. And yet which is the 
shadow of the truth : those dreams and hopes and aspirations 
of our younger life, or the grimy corruption with which the 
world cakes our souls ? 

She knew that she could not expect her father to sympa- 
thize with her ; she knew that to his judgment, circumstances 
being the same, and both suitors being equally sound in wind 
and limb, the choice of one of them should be a matter to be 
decided by the exterior consideration of wealth and general 
convenience. For men, and especially old men, who are inter- 
ested in the matter, putting aside their contempt of “ senti- 
ment,” little understand the preferences of women. Since 
the world began women have been an article of commerce, 
and in their hearts many men look upon them as an article of 
commerce still, creatures incapable of any real feeling (except 
of course, the natural maternal instinct), and quite ready to 
accommodate themselves to any master which fate gives them. 


196 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


It is, however, only fair to 'say- that they also sometimes reach 
that conclusion by study from the life rather than by the in- 
herited tradition. 

However, Ida had made her choice, made it suddenly; but 
none the less had made it. It lay between her father’s inter- 
est and the interest of the family at large, and her own hon- 
or as a woman — for the mere empty ceremony of marriage 
which satisfies the world cannot make dishonor an honorable 
thing. She had made her choice, and the readers of her his- 
tory must judge if that choice were right or wrong. 

After dinner Harold came again, as he had promised. The 
Squire was not in the drawing-room when he was showm in. 

Ida rose to greet him with a sweet and happy smile upon 
her face, for in the presence of her lover, all her doubts and 
troubles vanished like a mist. 

“I have a bit of good news for you,” said he, tiwing to 
look as though he were rejoiced to give it. “Edward Cossey 
has taken a wonderful turn for the better. They say that he 
will certainly recover.” 

“ Oh,” she answered, coloring a little, “ and now I have a 
bit of news for you, Colonel Quaritch. My engagement with 
Mr. Edward Cossey is at an end. I shall not marry him.” 

“Are you sure ? ” said Harold, with a gasp. 

“ Quite sure ; I have made uj) my mind,” and she held out 
her hand, as though to seal her words. 

He took it and kissed it. “Thank God, Ida,” he said. 

“‘Yes, ” she answered, “ thank God ,” and at that moment 
the Squire came in, looking very miserable and depressed, and 
of course nothing more was said about the matter. 


CHAPTER XXXn. 

GEORGE PROPHESIES AGAIN. 

Six weeks have passed, and in that time several things have 
happened. In the first place the miserly old banker, Edward 
Cossey’s father, had died, his death having been accelerated 
by the shock of his son’s accident. On his will being opened, 
it was found that property and money to no less a value than 
six hundred thousand pounds passed under it to Edward ab- 
solutely, the only condition attached being that he should 
continue in the house of Cossey & Son and leave a certain 
share of his fortune in the business. 


COLONEL QUARITCH, KC 


197 


Edward Cossey had also, thanks chiefly to Belle’s tender 
nursing, almost recovered ; with one exception — he was, and 
would be for life, stone deaf in the right ear. The paralj^sis 
which the doctors had feared had not shown itself. One of 
the first questions when he became convalescent was addressed 
to Belle Quest. 

He had, as in a dream, always seen her sweet face hanging- 
over him, and dimly known that she was ministering to him. 

“ Have you nursed me ever since the accident, Belle ? ” he 
said. 

“Yes,” she answered 

“It is very good of you, considering all things,” he mur- 
mured. “ I wonder that you did not let me die.” 

And she turned her face to the wall and said never a word, 
nor did any further conversation on these matters pass be- 
tween them. 

Then as his strength came back so did his passion for Ida 
De la Molle revive. He was not allowed to write or even re- 
ceive letters, and with this explanation of her silence he was 
fain to content himself. But the Squire, he was told often 
called to inquire after him, and once or twice Ida came with 
him. 

At length a time came, it was two days after he had been 
told of his father’s death, when he was pronounced fit to be 
moved into his own rooms, and to receive his correspondence 
as usual. 

The move was effected without any difficulty, and here Belle 
bade him good-by. Even as she did so George drove his 
fat pony up to the door, aiid, getting down, delivered a let- 
ter to the landlady, with particular instructions that it was 
to be delivered into Mr. Cossey’s own hands. As she passed. 
Belle saw that it was addressed in the Squire’s handwriting. 

When it was delivered to him Edward Cossey opened it 
with eagerness. It contained an enclosure in Ida’s writing, 
and this he read first. It ran as follows : 

“Dear Mr. Cossey — I am told that you are now able to 
read letters, so I hasten to write to you. First of all, let me 
tell you how thankful I am that you are in a fair way to com- 
plete recovery from your dreadful accident. And now I must 
tell you what I fear will be almost as painful to you to read 
as it is for me to write, namely, that the engagement between 
us is at an end. To put the matter frankly, you will remem- 
ber that I rightly or wrongly became engaged to you on a 
certain condition. That engagement has not been fulfilled, 


19S 


COLONEL qUAPdTCU, V.C. 


for 7Ir. Quest, to whom the mortgages on my father’s prop- 
erty have been transferred by you, is pressing for their pay- 
ment. Consequently the obligation on my part is at an end, 
and with it the engagement must end also, for I grieve to tell 
you that it is not one whieh my personal inclination will in- 
duce me to carry on. Wishing you a speedy and complete 
recovery, and every happiness and prosperity in your future 
life, believe me, dear Mr. Cossey, 

« Very truly yours, 

Ida De la Molle.’" 

He put this uncompromising and crushing epistle down, 
and nervously glanced at the Squire’s, which was very short. 
It began : 

“ My Dear Cossey — Ida has shown me the enclosed letter. 
I think that you did unwisely when you entered into what 
must be called a money bargain for my daughter’s hand. 
Whether, under all the circumstances, she does either well or 
wisely to repudiate the engagement after it has once been 
entered into, is not for me to judge. She is a free agent, and 
has of course a right to dispose of her life as she thinks fit. 
This being so, I have, of course, no option but to endorse her 
decision, so far as I have anything to do with the matter. It 
is a decision which I for some reasons regret, but which I am 
quite powerless to alter. 

“ Believe me, with kind regards, truly yours, 

James De la Molle.” 

Edward Cossey turned his face to the wall and indulged in 
such meditations as the occasion gave rise to, and they were 
bitter enough. He was as bent upon this marriage as he had 
ever been, more so in fact, now that his father was out of the 
way. He knew that Ida disliked him, he had known that all 
along, but he had trusted to time and marriage to overcome 
the dislike. And now that accursed Quest had brought about 
the ruin of his hopes. Ida had seen her chance of escape, 
and had, like a bold woman, seized upon it. There was one 
ray of hope, and one only. He knew that the money would 
not be forthcoming to pay off the mortgages. He could see, 
too, from the tone of the Squire’s letter, that he did not alto- 
gether approve of his daughter’s decision. And his father 
was dead. Like Caesar, he was the master of many legions, 
or rather of much money, which is as good as legions. Money 
can make most paths smooth to the feet of the traveller, and 


COLONEL qUAEITOn, V.C. 199 

why not this ? After much thought he came to a conclusion. 
He would not trust his chance to paper, he would plead his 
cause in person. So he wrote a short note to the Squire ac- 
knowledging Ida’s and his letter, and saying that he hoped to 
come and see them as soon as ever the doctor would allow 
him out of doors. 

Meanwhile George, having delivered his letter, had pro- 
ceeded upon another enand. Pulling up the fat pony in front 
of Mr. Quest’s office, he alighted and entered. Mr. Quest was 
disengaged, and he was shown straight into the inner office, 
where the lawyer sat looking more refined and gentleman- 
like than ever. 

“ How do you do, George ? ” he said, cheerily : “ sit down ; 
what is it ? ” 

“ Well, sir,” answered that lugubrious worthy; as he awk- 
wardly took a seat, “ the question is, what isn’t it ? these be 
rum times, they be ; ,they fare to puzzle a man, they du.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Quest, balancing a quill pen on his finger, 

the times are bad enough.” 

Then came a pause. 

“Dash it all, sir,” went on George, presently ; “I may as 
well get it out ; I have come to speak to you about the Squire’s 
business.” 

“ Yes ? ” said Mr. Quest. 

“Well, sir,” went on George, “I’m told that these mort- 
gages have passed into your hands, and that you have called 
in the money.” 

“Yes, that is correct,” said Mr. Quest again. 

“Well, sir, the fact is that the Squire can’t get the money. 
It can’t be had nohow. Nobody won’t take the land as se- 
curity. It might be so much water for all people will look 
at it.” 

“Quite so. Land is in very bad odor as security now.” 

“And that being so, sir, what is to be done?” 

Mr. Quest shrugged his shoulders. “ I do not know. If 
the money is not forthcoming, of course I shall, however un- 
willingly, be forced to take my legal remedy.” 

“Meaning, sir 

“Meaning that I shall bring an action for foreclosure and 
do what I can with the lands.” 

George’s face darkened. 

“And that reads, sir, that the Squire and Miss Ida will be 
turned out of Honham, where they have been for centuries, 
and that you will turn in ?” 

“ Well, that is what it comes to, George. I am sincerely 


200 


COLONEL QUABITGH, V.G. 

sorry to press the Squire, but it’s a matter of thirty thousand 
pounds, and I am not in a position to throw away thirty thou- 
sand pounds.” 

“ Sir,” said George, rising in indignation, “I don’t know how 
you came by them there mortgages. There is some things 
that l^iryers know and honest men don’t know, and that is one 
of them. But it seems that you’ve got ’em and are going to 
use ’em ; and that being so, Mr. Quest, I have summut to say 
to you —and that is that no good will come to. you from this 
move.” 

“ What do you mq^in by that, George ? ” said the lawyer, 
sharply. 

“Never you mind what I mean, sir. I means what I 
say. I means that sometimes people has things in their lives 
snugged away where nobody can’t see them, things as quiet 
as though they was dead and buried, and that ain’t dead and 
buried ; things so much alive that they fare as though they 
were fit to kick the lid off their coffin. That’s what I means, 
sir, and I means that when folk set to work to do a hard and 
wicked thing those dead things sometimes gets up and walks 
where they is least wanted, and mayhap if you goes on for to 
turn the old Squire and Miss Ida out of the Castle — mayhap, 
sir, something of that sort will happen to you ; for mark my 
word, sir, there’s justice in the world, sir, as mayhap you will 
find out. And now, sir, I’ll wish you good-morning, and 
leave you to consider what I’ve said,” and he was gone. 

“ George,” called Mr. Quest after him, rising from his chair, 
“ George,” but George was out of hearing. 

“Now what did he mean by that — what the devil did he 
mean ? ” said Mr. Quest, with a gasp, as he sat down again. 
“Surely,” he thought, “the man cannot have got hold of 
anything about Edith. Impossible, impossible ; if he had 
he would have said more, he would not have confined himself 
to halting, that would take a cleverer man ; he would have 
shown his hand. He must have been speaking at random to 
frighten me, I suppose. By heavens, what a thing it would 
be if he had got hold of something ! Ruin, absolute ruin ! 
I’ll settle up this business as soon as I can and leave the 
country ; I can’t stand the strain, it’s like having a sword over 
one’s head. I’ve half a mind to leave it in somebody else’s 
hands and go at once. No, for that would look like running 
away. It must be all rubbish ; how could he know anything 
about it?” 

So shaken was he, however, that though he tried once and 
yet again, be found it impossible to settle himself down to 


f 

COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 201 

work till he had taken a couple of glasses of sherry from 
i the decanter in the cupboard, and even as he did so he won- 
dered, if the shadow of the sword disturbed him so much, 
how he would be affected if it ever were his lot to face the 
glimmer of its naked blade. 

No further letter came to Edward Cossey from the Castle, 
but, impatient as he was to do so, another fortnight elapsed 
before he was able to go up to see Ida and her father. At 
last, one fine December morning, he was for the first time 
since his accident allowed to take carriage exercise, and his 
first drive was to Honharn Castle, 

When the Squire, who was sitting in the vestibule writing 
letters, saw a poor, pallid man rolled up in fur, with a white 
face scarred with shot marks, and black rings round his large, 
dark eyes, being helped from a closed carriage, he did not 
know who it was, and called to Ida, who was passing along 
the passage, to tell him. 

Of course she recognized her admirer instantly, and wished 
to leave the room, but her father prevented her. 

“You got into this mess,” he said, forgetting how and for 
whom she got into it, “ and now you must get out of it in 
your own way.” 

When Edward, having been assisted into the room, saw Ida 
; standing there, all the blood in his wasted body seemed to 
rush for a few seconds into his pallid face. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Cossey ? ” she said. “lam glad to 
see you out, and hope that you are better.” 

“ I beg your pardon, I cannot hear j^ou,” he said, turning 
round ; “I am stone deaf in my right ear.” 

A pang of pity shot through her heart. Edward Cossey 
feeble, dejected, and limping from the jaws of death, was a 
very different being to Edward Cossey in the full blow of his 
youth and health and strength. Indeed, so much did his con- 
dition appeal to her sympathies that, for the first time since 
her mental attitude towards him had been one of entire in- 
difference, she looked on him without repugnance. 

Meanwhile her father had shaken him by the hand, and led 
him to an arm-chair before the fire. 

Then after a few questions and answers as to his accident 
• and merciful recovery there came a pause. 

At length he broke it. “I have come to see you both,” 
he said, with a faint, nervous smile, “ about the letters you 
wrote me. If my condition would have allowed it I would 
have come before, but it would not.” 

“ Yes,” said the Squire attentively, while Ida folded her 


202 COLONEL QUARITCN V.G. 

hands in her lap, and sat still with her eyes fixed upon the 
fire. 

“ It seems,” he went on, “ that the old proverb has applied 
to my case as to so many others — being absent I have suffer- 
ed. I understand from these letters that my engagement to 
you, Ida, is broken off.” 

She made a motion of assent. 

“ And that it is to be broken off on the ground that, hav- 
ing been forced by a combination of circumstances which I 
cannot enter into to transfer the mortgages to Mr. Quest, 
consequently that I broke my bargain with you.” 

“ Yes,” said Ida. 

“ Very well, then ; I come to tell you both that I am ready 
to find the money to meet those mortgages and. pay them 
off.” 

Ah ! ” said the Squire. 

“ Also that I am ready to do what I offered to do before, 
and which, as my father is now dead, I am perfectly in a 
position to do, namely, to settle two hundred thousand 
pounds absolutely upon Ida, and indeed do anything else 
that she or you may wish,” and he looked at the Squire. 

“ It is no use looking at me for an answer,” said he, with 
some irritation. “ I have no voice in the matter.” 

He turned to Ida, who put her hand before her face and 
shook her head. 

“Perhaps,” said Edward, somewhat bitterly, “ I should not 
be far wrong if I said that Colonel Quaritch has more to do 
with your change of mind than the fact of the transfer of 
these mortgages.” 

She dropped her hand and looked him full in the face. 

“ You are quite right, Mr. Cossey,” she said, boldly. “ Col- 
onel Quaritch and I are attached to each other, and we hope 
one day to be married.” 

“ Confound that fellow’, Quaritch,” growled the Squire. 

Edward winced visibly at this outspoken statement. 

“ Ida,” he said, “ I make one last appeal to you. I am de- 
voted to you with all my heart ; so devoted that though it 
may seem foolish to say so, especially before your father, I 
really think that I would rather not have recovered from my 
accident than that I should have recovered for this. I will 
give you everything that a w’oman can w’ant, and my money 
will make your family wdiat it was centuries ago, the greatest 
in the country side. I don’t pretend to have been a saint — 
perhaps you may have heard something against me in that 
way — or to be anything out of the way. I am only an ordin- 


COLONEL QUARITCH, KC, 


203 


ary every-day man, but I am devoted to you. Think, then, 
before you refuse me altogether.” 

“I have thought, Mr. Cossey,” answered Ida, 'almost pas- 
sionately ; “I have thought until I am sick of thinking, and 
I do not think that it is fair that you should press me like 
this, especially before my father.” 

“Then,” he said, rising with difficulty, “I have said all 
that I have to say, and done all that I can do. I shall still 
hope that you may change your mind. I shall not yet aban- 
don hope. Good-by.” 

She touched his hand, and then, the Squire offering him 
his arm, he went down the steps to his carriage. 

“ I hope, Mr. De la Molle,” he said, “ that bad as things 
are for me, if they should take a turn, I shall have your sup- 
port.” 

“My dear sir,” answered the Squire, “I tell you frankly 
that I wish my daughter would marry you. As I said before 
I have nothing against you, and it would, for obvious reasons, 
be desirable. But Ida is not like ordinary w^omen. When 
she sets her mind upon a thing she sets it like a flint. Things 
may change, however, and that is all I can say. Yes, if I were 
you, I should remember that this is a changeable w^orld, and 
that women are the most changeable things in it.” 

When the carriage had gone he re-entered the vestibule. 
Ida, who was going aw'ay much disturbed in mind, saw him 
coming, and knew from the expression of his face that there 
was going to be trouble. With characteristic courage she 
turned, determined to face it out. 


CHAPTER XXXin. 

THE SQUIRE SPEAKS HIS MIND. 

For a minute or more her father fidgeted about, moving 
his papers backward and forward, but said nothing. 

At last he spoke. “You have taken a most serious and 
painful step, Ida,” he said. “ Of course you have a right to 
do as you please ; you are of full age, and J cannot expect 
that you will consider me or your family in your matrimonial 
engagements, but at the same time I think that it is my duty to 
point out to you what it is that you are doing. You are re- 
fusing one of the finest matches in England in order to mar- 
ry a broken-down, middle-aged, half -pay colonel, a man who 


204 


COLONEL qUARITOH, V.C. 


can hardly support you, whose part in life is played, or who 
is apparently too idle to seek another.” 

Here Ida’s eyes flashed ominously, but she made no com- 
ment, being apparently afraid to trust herself to speak. 

“ You are doing this,” went on her father, working himself 
up as he spoke, “ in the face of my wishes, and with the 
knowledge that your action will bring your family, to say 
nothing of your father, to utter and irretrievable ruin.” 

“Surely, father, surely,” broke in Ida, almost in a cry, 

“ you would not have me marry one man when Hove another. 
When I made the promise I had not become attached to Col- 
onel Quaritch.” 

“ Love ! pshaw ! ” said her father ; “ don’t talk to me in 
that sentimental and schoolgirl way ; you are too old for it. 

I am a plain man, and I believe in family affection and in 
duty, Ida. Love, as you call it, is only too often another word 
for self-will and selfishness and other things that we are 
better without.” 

“I can understand, father,” answered Ida, struggling to 
keep her temper under this jobation, “ that my refusal to 
marry Mr. Cossey is disagreeable to you for obvious reasons, 
though it is not so very long ago that you detested him your- 
self. But I do not see why an honest woman’s affection for 
another man should be talked of as though there was some- 
thing shameful about it. It is all very well to sneer at ‘love,’ 
but, after all, a woman is flesh and blood ; she is not a chattel 
or a slave-girl, and marriage is not like anything else ; it 
means, as you must know, many things to a woman. There 
is no magic about marriage to make that which is unrighteous 
righteous, or that which is impure pure.” 

“ There,” said her father ; “it is no good your lecturing 
me on marriage, Ida. If you do not want to marry Cossey I 
can’t force you to. If you want to ruin me and your family 
and yourself you must do so. But there is one thing — while 
it is over me, which I suppose will not be for much longer, 
my house is my own, and I will not have that Colonel of 
yours hanging about it, and I shall write to him to say so. 
You are your own mistress, and if you choose to walk over to ! 
church and marry him you can do so, but it will be done ■ 
without my consent, which, of course, however, is an un- ■ 
necessary formality. Bo you hear me, Ida ? ” i 

“ If you have quite done, father,” she answered, coldly, “ I 
should like to go before I say something which I might be 
sorry for. Of course, you can write what you like to Colonel j 
Quaritch, and I shall write to him, too,” i 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G, 


205 


Her father made no answer beyond sitting down at his 
table and grabbing viciously at a pen. So she left the room, 
indignant, indeed, but with as heavy a heart as any woman 
could well carry in her breast. 

“Dear Sir [wrote the not altogether unnaturally indig- 
nant Squire], — I have been informed by my daughter Ida of 
her entanglement with you. It is one which, for reasons that 
I need not enter into, is most distasteful to me, as well as, 
I am sorry to say, ruinous to Ida herself and to her family. 
Ida is of full age, and must, of course, do as she pleases with 
herself. But I cannot consent to become a party to what I 
disapprove of so strongly, and this being the case, I must beg 
you to cease your visits to this house. 

“ I am, sir, your obedient servant, James De la Molle, 

“Colonel Quaritch.” 

Ida, as soon as she had sufficiently recovered herself, also 
wrote to the Colonel. She told him the whole story, keeping 
nothing back, and ended her letter thus : 

“ Never, dear Harold, was a woman in a greater difficulty, 
and never have I more needed help and advice. You know, 
and have good reason to know, how hateful this marriage 
would be to me, loving you as I do entirely and alone, and 
having no higher desire than to become your wife. But, of 
course, I see the painfulness of the position. I am not so self- 
ish as my father believes, or says that he believes. I quite 
understand how great would be the material advantage to 
my father if I could bring myself to marry Mr. Cossey. You 
may remember that I told you once that I thought that no 
woman had a right to prefer her own happiness to the pros^ 
perity of her whole family. But, Harold, it is easy to speak 
this, and very, very hard to act up to it. What am I to do ? 
What am I to do ? And yet how can I, in common fairness, 
ask you to answer that question ? God help us both, Harold ! 
Is there no way out of it ? ” 

These letters were both duly received by Harold Quaritch 
on the following morning, and threw him into a fever of anx- 
iety and doubt. He was a just and reasonable man, and, 
knowing something of human nature, under the circumstances 
did not altogether wonder at the Squire’s violence and imtation. 
The financial position of the De La Molle family was little, if 
anything, short of desperate, and he could easily understand 


206 COLONEL QUAmTOH, V.G. \ 

"■k 

how inaddeniDg it must be to a man like the Squire, who loved 
Honham, which had for centuries been the habitation of his 
race, better than he loved anything on earth, to suddenly 
realize that it must pass away from him and his forever, merely 
because a woman happened to prefer one man to another, and 
that man, to his view, the less eligible of the two. So 
keenly did he realize this, indeed, that he greatly doubted 
whether or no he was justified in continuing his advances to 
Ida. Finally, after much thought, he wrote to the Squire as 
follows : 

“ I have received your letter, and also one from Ida, and I 
hope you will believe me when I say that I quite understand 
and sympathize with the motives which evidently led you to 
write it. I am, unfortunately — although I never regretted it 
till now — a poor man, whereas my rival suitor is a very rich 
one. I shall, of course, strictly obey your injunctions ; and, 
moreover, 1 can assure you that, whatever my own feelings 
may be in the matter, I shall do nothing, either directly or 
indirectl}’", to influence Ida’s ultimate decision. She must de- 
cide for herself.” 

To Ida he wrote at length : 

“ Dearest Ida [he ended], — I can say nothing more ; you 
must judge for yourself ; and I shall accept your decision 
loyally, whatever it may be. It is unnecessary for me now to 
tell you how inextricably my happiness in life is interwoven 
with that decision, but at the same time I do not wish to in- 
fluence it. It certainly, to my mind, does not seem right that 
a woman should be driven into sacrificing her whole life to se- 
cure any monetary advantage, either for herself or for others ; 
but then the world is full of things that are not right. I can 
give you no advice, for I do not know what advice I ought to j 
give. I try to put myself out of the question, and to consider 
you, and you only ; but even then I feel that my judgment is 
not impartial. At any rate, the less we see of each other the 
better at present, for I do not wish to appear to be taking any 
undue advantage. If we are destined to pass our lives to- 
gether, this temporary estrangement will not matter ; and if, 
on the other hand, we are doomed to a life-long separation, 
the sooner we begin the better. It is a cruel wodd, and 
sometimes (as it does now) my heart sinks within me as, from 
year to year, I struggle on towards a happiness that ever 
vanishes when I stretch out my hand to clasp it ; but, if I 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


207 


feel thus, what must you feel, who have so much more to 
bear ? My dearest love, what can I say to you ? I can only 
say, with you, God help ns ! ” 

This letter did not tend to raise Ida’s spirits. Evidently 
her lover saw that there was another side to the question, the 
side of duty, and was too honest to hide it from her. She 
had said that she would have nothing to do with Edward 
Cossey, but she was well aware that the matter was still an 
open one. What should she do ? What ought she to do ? 
Abandon her love, desecrate and defile herself, and save her 
father and her house, or cling to her love, and leave the rest 
to chance ? It was a cruel position, nor did the lapse of time 
tend to make it less cruel. Her father w^ent about the place 
pale and melancholy ; all his old jovial manner had vanished 
beneath the pressure of impending ruin. He treated her with 
studious and old-fashionied courtesy, but she could see that 
he was bitterly aggrieved by her conduct, and that the 
anxiety of his position was telling on his health. If this was 
the case now, what, she wondered, would happen in the 
spring, when proceedings were actually taken to sell the 
place ? 

One bright, cold morning she was walking with her father 
through the fields down the footpath that led to the church, 
and it would have been hard to say which of them looked 
the paler or the more miserable of the two. On the previous 
day the Squire had had an interview with Mr. Quest, and 
made as much of an appeal, ad misericord lam, to him, as his 
pride would alloAV, only to find the lawy^er very courteous, 
very regretful, but as hard as adamant. Also that very morn- 
ing a letter had reached him from London, announcing that 
the last hope of raising money to meet the mortgages to be 
paid off had failed. 

The path ran along towards the road past a line of oaks. 
Half-way down this line they came across George, who, with 
his marking instrument in his hand, was contemplating some 
of the trees which it was proposed to take down. 

“ What are you doing there ? ” said the Squire, in a melan- 
choly voice. 

“Marking, squire.” 

“ Then you may as well save yourself the trouble, for the 
place will belong to somebody else before the sap is up in 
those oaks.” 

“No, Squire, don’t you begin to talk like that, for I don’t be- 
lieve it. That ain’t a-going to happen.” 


208 


COLONEL qU ABIT GIL KG. 


“ Ain’t a-going to happen, you stupid fellow ! ain’t a-going 
to happen ! ” answered the Squire, with a dreary laugh. 
“ Why, look there ! ” — he pointed to a dog-cart which had 
drawn up on the road in such a position that they could see 
it without its occupants seeing them — “ they are taking notes 
already.” 

George looked, and so did Ida. Mr. Quest was the driver 
of the dog-cart, which had pulled up in such a position as to 
command a view of the Castle, and his companion, in whom 
George recognized a well-known London auctioneer, who 
sometimes did business in those parts, was standing up, an 
open note-book in his hand, alternately looking at the noble 
towers of the gateway and jotting down memoranda. 

“ D — him, and so he be,” said George, utterly forgetting 
his manners. 

Ida looked up and saw her father’s eyes fixed upon her with 
an expression that seemed to say, “ See, you wilful woman, 
see the ruin that j^ou have brought upon us ! ” 

Ida turned away ; she could not bear it, and that very night 
she came to a determination, which she in due course commu- 
nicated to Harold, and him alone. That determination was 
to let things be for the present, upon the chance of something 
happening by which the dilemma might be solved. But if 
nothing happened— and, indeed, it did not seem probable to 
her that anything would happen — then she would sacrifice 
herself at the last moment. She believed, indeed she knew, 
that she could always call Edw'ard Cossey back to her if she 
liked. It was a compromise, and, like all compromises, had 
an element of weakness ; but it gave time, and time to her 
was like water to the dying. 

“Sir,” said George, presently, “it’s Boisingham Quarter 
Sessions the day after to-mori’ow, ain’t it ? ” De la Molle 
was chairman of Quarter Sessions.) 

“ Yes, of course it is.” 

George thought for a minute. 

“ I’m thinking, Squire, that if I arn’t wanted that day I want 
to go up to Lunnon about a bit of business.” 

“Go up to London,” said the Squire ; “why, what do you 
want to do there ? You were in London the other day.” 

“Well, Squire,” he answered, looking inexpressibly sly, 
“ that ain’t no matter of nobody's. It’s a bit of private affairs.” 

“ Oh, all right,” said the Squire, his interest dying out. 
“ You are always full of mysteries,” and he continued liis w^alk. 

But George shook his fist in the direction of the road dowm 
which the dog-cart had driven. 


COLONEL QUARITGII, V.G. 


209 


' “Ah, you devil!” he said, alluding to IVIr. Quest, “if I 
don’t make Boisingham, yes, and all England, too hot to hold 
you, my name ain’t George. Ill give you what for, my cuckoo, 
that I will.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
geokge’s diplomatic errand. 

George earned out his intention of going to London. The 
morning following the day when Mr. Quest had driven the 
auctioneer in the dog-cart to Honham, George might have 
been seen, an hour before it was light, purchasing a third- 
class return ticket to Liverpool Street. Arriving there in 
safety, he partook of a second breakfast, for it was ten o’clock, 
and then, taking a cab, he had himself driven to the end of 
that street in Pimlico where he had gone with the fair “ Edith- 
ia,” and where Johnnie had made acquaintance with his ash- 
stick. 

Dismissing the cab, he made his way to the house with the 
red pillars, where he was considerably taken aback, for the 
place had every appearance of being deserted. There were 
no blinds to the windows, and on the steps were muddy foot- 
marks and bits of rag and straw, which seemed to be the lit- 
ter of a recent removal. Indeed, there on the road were the 
broad wheel-marks of the van which had carted off the furni- 
ture. He started at this sight with dismay. The bird had 
apparently flown, and left no address, and he had had his 
trip for nothing. 

He pressed upon the electric bell ; that is, he did this ulti- 
mately. George was not accustomed to electric bells ; indeed, 
he had never seen one before ; and after attempting in vain 
to pull it with his fingers, for he knew that it must be a bell, 
because there was the word itself written on it, he conde- 
scended to try his teeth. Ultimately, however, he discovered 
how to use it, but without result. Either the battery had 
been taken away, or it was out of gear. Just as he was won- 
dering what to do next he made a discovery — the door was 
slightly ajar. He pushed it, and it opened, revealing a dirty 
hall, stripped of every scrap of furniture. Entering, he shut 
the door, and walked up-stairs to the room wiiere he had fled 
after thrashing Johnnie. Here he paused and listened, for 
he thought he heard somebody in the room ; nor was he mis- 
14 


210 COLONEL QUARITCn, V.C, 

taken, for presently a well-remembered voice shrilled out 
within, 

“ Who’s skulking about outside there ? ” said the voice. “If 
it’s one of those bailiffs, he better hook it, for there’s nothing 
left here.” 

George’s countenance positively beamed at the sound. 

“ Bailiffs, inarm ? ” he sung out through the door ; “ it ain’t 
no varminty bailiffs ; it’s a friend, and just when you’re want- 
ing one, seemingly. Can I come in ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, come in, whoever you are,” said the voice. Ac- 
cordingly he opened the door and entered, and this wasw'hat 
he saw. The room had, like the rest of the house, been 
stripped of everything, with the exception of a box and a 
mattress, beside which was an empty bottle and a dirty glass. 
On the mattress sat the fair Edithia, alias Mrs. D’Aubign6, 
alias the Tiger, alias Mrs. Quest, and such a sight as she pre- 
sented George had never seen before. Her fierce face bore 
traces of recent heavy drinking, and was, moreover, dirty, 
haggard, and dreadful to look upon ; her hair was a frowsy 
mat, on some patches of which the golden d^^e had faded, 
leaving it its natural hue, which was a doubtful gray. She 
had no collar on, and her linen was open at the neck ; on her 
feet were a filthy pair of white-satin slippers, on her back 
that same gorgeous pink-satin tea-gown which Mr. Quest had 
observed on the occasion of his visit, now, however, soiled 
and torn. Anything more squalid or more repulsive than the 
whole picture cannot be imagined ; and though his stomach 
was pretty strong, and in the course of his life he had seen 
many a sight of utter destitution, George literally recoiled 
from it. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” said the hag, sharply ; “ and who 
the dickens are you ? Ah, I know now ; you’re the chap who 
whacked Johnnie and she burst into a hoarse scream of 
laughter at the recollection. “ It was mean of you, though, 
to hook it and leave me. He pulled me, the devil, and I was 
fined two pounds by the beak.” 

“ Mean of him, inarm, not me ; but he was a mean varmint 
altogether, he was, to go and pull a lady, too ; I never heard 
of such a thing. But, inarm, if I might say so, you seem to 
be in trouble here,” and he took a seat upon the deal-box. 

“In trouble? I should think I was in trouble. There’s 
been an execution in the house ; that is, there's been three 
executions — one for rates and taxes, one for a butcher’s bill 
and one for rent. They all came together, and they fought 
like wild cats for the duds. That was yesterday, and you see 


COLONEL qUARITClI, KC. 


211 


all they have left me ; cleaned out everything, down to my 
new yellow satin, and then asked for more. They wanted to 
know where my jewelry was, but I did them there, hee, hee !” 

“ Meaning, marm ? ” 

“Meaning that I hid it — that is, what was left of it — under 
a board. But that ain’t the worst. When I was asleep that 
devil Ellen, who’s had her sliare of the swag all these years, 
got to the board and collared the things and bolted with them, 
and look what she left me instead ! ” — and she held up a scrap 
of paper — “ a receipt for five years’ wages, and she’s had them 
over and over again. Ah, if ever I get a chance at her ! ” and 
she doubled her long hand, and made a motion as of a person 
scratching. “ She’s bolted, and left me here to starve. I 
haven’t had a bit since yesterday, nor a drink either, and 
that’s worse. What’s to become of me? I’m starving. I 
shall have to go to the workhouse. Yes, me ! ” she added, in 
a scream ; “ me, who have spent thousands ; I shall have to 
go to a workhouse, like a common woman ! ” 

“ It’s cruel, marm, cruel ! ” said the sympathetic George, 
“ and you a lawful, wedded wife ‘ till death do us part.’ But,- 
marm, I saw a public over the way. Now, no offence, but 
you’ll let me just go over and fetch a bite and a sup.” 

“Well,” she answered, hungrily, “you’re a gent, you are, 
though you are a country one. You go, while I just make a 
little toilet, and as for the drink, why let it be brandy.” 

“ Brandy it shall be,” said the gallant George, and departed. 

In ten minutes he returned, with a supply of beef patties, 
some plates and glasses, and a bottle of good, strong British 
Brown, which, as everybody knows, is a sufficient quantity to 
make three privates or two blue jackets drunk and incapable. 

The woman, who now presented a slightly more respectable 
appearance, seized the bottle, and pouring about a wineglass 
and a half of its contents into a tumbler, mixed it with an 
equal quantity of water, and drank it off at a draught. 

“ That’s better,” she said ; “ and now for a patty. It’s a 
real picnic, this is.” 

He handed her one, but she could not eat more than half 
of it, for alcohol destroys the more healthy appetite, and she 
soon flew back to the brandy bottle. 

“ Now, marm, that you are a little more comfortable, pp- 
haps you will tell me how you got into this way, and you with 
a rich husband as I well knows to love and cherish you.” 

“ A husband to love and cherish me? ” she said ; “ why, I 
have written to him three times to tell him that I’m starving, 
and never a penny has he given me — and there’s no allowance 


212 COLONEL QUARITCH, V.O, 

due yet, and when there is they’ll take it, for I owe hun- 
dreds.” 

“ Well,” said George, “ I call it cruel — cruel, and he rolling 
in gold. Thirty thousand pounds he has just made, that I 
know of. You must be an angel, inarm, to stand it, an angel 
without wings. If it were my husband I’d know the reason 
why.” 

“ Ah, but I daren’t. He’d murder me. He said he w^ould.” 

George laughed, gently. “ Lord ! Lord ! ” he said, “ to see 
how men do play it off upon poor weak women, working on 
their narves and that like. He kill you. Laryer Quest kill 
you, and he the biggest coward in Boisingham. But there 
it is ; this is a world of wrong as the parson says, and the 
poor shorn lambs must jamb their tails down and turn their 
starns to the wind, and so must you, marm. So it’s the 
workhus you’ll be in to-morrow. Well, ^^ou’ll find it a poor 
place, the skilly is .that rough it do fare to take the skin off 
your throat, and not a drop of liquor, not even a cup of hot 
tea, and work too, lots of it — scrubbing, marm, scrubbing.” 

This vivid picture of miseries to come drew something be- 
tw^een a sob and a howl from the woman. There is nothing 
more horrible to the imagination of such people than the idea 
of being forced to w^ork. If their notions of a future state of 
punishment could be got at, they would be found in nine 
cases out of ten to resolve themselves into a vague conception 
of hard labor in a hot climate. It was the idea of the scrub- 
bing that particularly affected the Tiger. 

“ I won’t do it,” she said, “ I’ll go to chokey first ” 

“ Look here, marm,” said George, in a persuasive voice, 
and pushing the brandy bottle towards her, “ wdiere’s the 
need for you to go to the wwkhus or to chokey either — you 
Avith a rich husband as is bound by law to support you as be- 
comes a lady ; and, marm, mind another thing, a husband as 
has Avickedly deserted ou — which how he could do so ain’t for 
me to say — and is living along of another young party.” 

She took some more brand}* before she answered. 

“That’s all very well, you duffer,” she said; “but how am 
I to get at him ? I tell you I’m afraid of him, and even if I 
Averen’t, I haven’t a cent to travel with, and if I got there what 
am I to do ? ” 

“As for being afraid, marm,” he ansAvered, “I’ve told you 
Laryer Quest is a long-sight more frightened of you than you 
are of him. Then as for money, Avhy, marm, I’m going down 
to Boisingham myself by the train that leaves Liverpool Street 
at half-p.ast one, and that’s an hour from noAv, and it’s jAroud 


COLONEL qUARITGH, V.G, 


213 


and pleased I should be to take a lady down and be the means 
of bringing them as has been in holy matrimony together 
again. And as to what you should do when you gets there, 
why, you should just walk up with your marriage lines and 
say, ‘ You are my husband, and I call on you to cease living' 
ill sin and to take me back ; ’ and if he don’t, why then you 
swears an information, and it’s a case of warrant for bigamy.” 

The Tiger chuckled, and then, suddenty seized with suspi- 
cion, looked at her visitor sharply. 

‘• What do you w^ant me to blow the gaff for,” she said ; 
“you’re a leery old hand you are, for all your simple ways, 
and 3’ou’ve got some game on. I’ll take my davey.” 

“la game — I?” answered George, an expression of the 
deepest pain spreading itself over his ugly features. “ No, 
inarm — and when one has wanted to help a friend, too. Well, 
it you think that — aiiH no doubt misfortune has made you 
suspicious — the best I .can do is to bid you good-day, and to 
wish you well out of your troubles, workhus and all, mai’m, 
which I do according,” and he rose from his box with much 
dignity, politely bowed to the hag on the mattress, and then, 
turning, w^alked towards the door. 

She sprang up with an oath. 

“I’ll go,” she said, “I’ll take the change out of him ; I’ll 
teach him to let his lawful wife starve on a beggarly pittance. 
I don’t care if he does try to kill me. I’ll ruin him ; ” and she 
stamped upon the floor and screamed, “ I’ll ruin him ! I’ll 
ruin him ! ” presenting such a picture of abandoned evil and 
wickedness that even George, whose nerves were not finely 
strung, inwardly shrank from her. 

“Ah, marm,” he said, “no wonder you’re put out. When 
I think of w^hat you’ve had to sufi’er, I own it makes my blood 
go biling through my veins. But if you are a-coming, per- 
liaps it would be as well to stop cursing and put your hat on, 
for we have got to catch the train,” and he pointed to a head- 
gear chiefly made of somewhat dilapidated peacock feathers, 
and an ulster wdiich the bailiffs had either overlooked or left 
through pity. 

She put on the hat and cloak, and then going to the hole 
beneath the board, out of which she said the woman Ellen 
had stolen her jew^elry, she extracted the copy of the cer- 
tificate ’of marriage which that lady had not apparently 
thought w^orth stealing, and put it in the pocket of her pink 
silk peignoir. 

Then George, having first secured the remainder of the 
bottle of brandy, which he put into his capacious pocket, they 


214 


COLONEL QUAEITCH, V.C. 


started, and, finding a hansom, drove to Liverpool Street. 
Such a spectacle as the Tiger looked upon the platform 
George was wont in after-days to declare he never did see. 
But it can easily be imagined that a fierce, dissolute, huugry- 
looking woman, with half-dyed hair, who had drunk as much 
as was good for her; dressed in a hat made of peacock 
feathers, dirty- white shoes, an ulster with some buttons ofi^ 
and a gorgeous but filthy pink silk tea-gown, presented a 
sufficiently curious appearance, especially wdien contrasted 
with her companion, the sober and melancholy-looking 
George, who was arrayed in his pepper-and-salt Sunday suit. 

So curious indeed was their aspect that the people loitering 
about the platform collected round them, and George, who 
was heartily ashamed of the position, was thankful enough 
w'hen once the train started. He had from motives of econo- 
my taken her a third-class ticket, and at this she grumbled, 
saying that she was accustomed to travel, like a lady should, 
first ; but he appeased her w ith the brandy bottle. 

All the journey through he talked to her about her wrongs, 
till at last, what between the liquor and his artful incitements, 
she was inflamed into a condition of savage fury against Mr. 
Quest. When once she got to this point he would let her 
have no more brandj', seeing that she was now ripe for his 
purpose, which was, of course, to use her to ruin the man 
who w^ould ruin the house he served. 

Mr. Quest, sitting, in state as clerk to the magistrates as- 
sembled in Quarter Sessions at the session-house at Boising- 
ham, little guessed that the sw'ord at wffiose shadow he had 
trembled all these years was even now falling on his head, or 
that the hand that cut the hair that held it w’as that of the 
stupid bumpkin whose warning he had despised. 


COLONEL qU ABIT CM, V.C. 


215 


CHAPTEE XXXV. 

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. 

At last the weary journey was over, and to George’s intense 
relief he found himself upon the platform at Boisingham. 
He w'as a pretty tough subject, but he felt that a very little 
more of the company of the fair Edithia w'ould be too much 
for him. As it happened, the station-master was a particular 
friend of his, and the astonishment of that worthy when he 
saw the respectable George in such company cannot be ex- 
pressed in words. 

“ Why, boar ! Well, I never! Is she a furiner? ” he ejac- 
ulated, in astonishment. 

“If you mean me, j^ou dirty, wheel-greasing steam boss, 
3’ou,” said Edithia, who was by now in fine bellicose condi- 
tion, “I’m no more foreign than you are. Shut 3'our ugly 
mouth, can’t j^ou? or” — and she took a step toward the stoiit 
station-master. He retreated precipitately, caught his heel 
against the threshold of the bool;ing office, and vanished 
backward with a crash. 

“Stead}^ marm, steadj^” said George. “Save it up now, 
do ; and as for you, don’t you irritate her, none of you, or I 
won’t answer for the consequences, for she’s an injured wo- 
man, she is, and injured women is apt to be dangerous.” 

As chance would have it, a fly which had brought some- 
bod}' to the station was still standing there, and into it George 
bundled his fair charge, telling the driver to go to the Ses- 
sions House. 

“Now, marm,” he said, “listen to me; I’m going to take 
3^ou to the man as has wronged you. He’s sitting as clerk to 
the magistrates. Do you go up and call him your husband. 
Then he’ll tell the policeman to take you awa^'. Then do you 
sing out for justice, because when people sings out for justice 
everybody’s bound to listen, and say that jo\x want a warrant 
against him for bigamy, and show them the marriage certifi- 
cate. Don’t 3"ou be put down, and don’t 3"Ou spare him. If 
you don’t startle him you’ll never get anything out of him.” 

“ Spare him 1 ” she snarled ; “ I’ll make him sit up ; I’ll 
have his blood ! But look here, if he’s put in chokey, where’s 
the tin to come from ? ” 

“ Why, marm,” answered George, with splendid mendacity, 


COLONEL QUARITCII, V.C. 


l>16 

“ it’s the best thing that can happen for -you, for if they collar 
him, you get the proper t}^, and that’s law.” 

“Oh,” she answered, “if I’d known that, he’d have been 
collared long ago, I can tell you.” 

“ Come,^’ said George, seeing that they were nearing their 
destination, “have one more nip, just to keep your spirits 
up,” and he produced the brandy bottle, at which she took a 
long pull. 

“Now,” he said, ‘Igo for him like a wild-cat.” 

“ Never you fear,” she said. 

They dismounted from the cab and entered the court-house 
without attracting any particular notice. The court itself 
was crowded, for a case which had excited public interest was 
coming to a conclusion. The jury had given their verdict, 
and sentence was being pronounced by Mr. De la Molle, the 
chairman. 

Mr. Quest was sitting at his table below the bench, taking 
some notes. 

“ There’s your husband,” he whispered, “ now do you draw 
on.” 

George’s part in the drama was played, and with a sigh of 
relief he fell back to watcMts final development. He saw the 
fierce tall woman slip through the crowd like a snake or a 
panther to its prey, and some compunction touched him when 
he thought of the pre3^ He glanced at the elderly, respec- 
table-looking gentleman at the table, and reflected that he too 
was stalking his prey — the old Squire and the ancient house 
of De la Molle. Then his compunction vanished, and he re- 
joiced to think that he would be the means of destroying a 
man who, to fill his pockets, did not hesitate to destroy the 
family with which his life and the lives of his forefathers for 
many generations had been interwoven. 

By this time the woman had fought her way through the 
press, bursting the remaining buttons off her ulster in so 
doing, and reached the bar which separated the spectators 
from the space reserved for the officials. On the further side 
of the bar was a gangway, then came the table at which Mr. 
Quest sat. He had been busy writing something all this 
time ; now he rose and passed it to Mr. De la Molle, and then 
turned to sit down again. 

Meanwhile his wife had craned her long, lithe bodj" for- 
ward over the bar till her head was almost level with the 
hither edge of the table. There she stood glaring at him, her 
wicked face alive with fury and malice, for the brandy she had 
drunk had caused her to forget her fears. 


GOLOmL QUAItlTCH, V.C. 


21 T 

As Mr. Quest turned, his ej^e caught the flash of color from 
the peacock-feather hat. From thence it travelled to the face 
beneath. 

He gave a gasp, and the court seemed to. whirl round him. 
The sword had fallen indeed. 

“Well, Billy,” whispered the hateful voice, “you see I’ve 
come to look you up.” 

With a desperate effort he recovered himself. A policeman 
was standing near him. He beckoned to him, and told him 
to remove the woman, who was drunk. The policeman ad- 
vanced and touched her on the arm. 

“ Come, you be off,” he said ; “ you’re drunk:” 

At that moment Mr. De la Molle ceased giving judgment. 

“I ain’t drunk,” said the woman, loud enough to attract 
the attention of the whole court, which now for the first time 
observed her extraordinary attire ; “ and I’ve a right to be in 
the public court.” 

“ Come on,” said the policeman ; “the clerk says you’re to 
go.” 

“The clerk says so, does he?” she answered; “and do 
you know who the clerk is? I’ll tell you all,” and she raised 
her voice to a scream. “ He’s my husband, my lawful wed- 
ded husband, and here’s proof of it and she took the folded 
certificate from her pocket and flung it so that it fell upon 
the desk of one of the magistrates. 

Mr. Quest sank into his chair, and there was a silence of 
astonishment through the court. 

The Squire was the first to recover himself. 

“ Silence ! ” he said, addressing her. “ Silence ! This can- 
not go on here.” 

“But I want justice,” she shrieked. “I want justice; I 
want justice ; I want a warrant against that man for higamy.'' 
(Kenewed sensation.) “He’s left me to starve — me, his law- 
ful wife. Look here”— and she tore open the pink satin tea 
gown — “I haven’t enough clothes on me ; the bailiffs took all 
my clothes; I have su&red his cruelty for years, and borne 
it, and I can bear it no longer. Justice, your worships ; I 
only ask for justice.” 

“Be silent, woman,” said Mr. De la Molle; “if you have 
any criminal charge to bring against anybody, there is a 
proper way to make it. Be silent, or leave this court. 

But she only screamed the more for justice, and loudly 
detailed fragments of her woes to the eagerly listening crowd. 

Then the policemen were ordered to remove her, and there 
followed the most frightful scene. She shrieked :nid bit and 


218 


COLONEL QUARirOII, V.G. 


fought in such a fashion that it took four men to drag her to 
the door of the court, where she dropped exhausted against 
the wall in the corridor. 

“ Well,” said the observant George to himself, “she has 
done the trick proper, and no mistake. Couldn’t have been 
better. That’s a master one, that is.” Then he turned his 
attention to the stricken man before him. Mr. Quest was 
sitting in his chair, his face ashen, his eyes wide open, and 
his hands placed flat on the table before him. When silence 
had been restored he rose and turned to the bench, appar- 
ently with the intention of addressing the court. But he 
said nothing, either because he could not find words or be- 
cause his courage failed him. There was a moment’s intense 
silence, for every one in the crowded court was watching him, 
and the sense of it seemed to take what resolution he had left 
out of him. At any rate, he left the table and hurried from 
the court. In the passage he found the Tiger, v>^ho, sur- 
rounded by little crowd, and with her hat awry and her 
clothes half torn from her back, was huddled gasping against 
the wall. 

She saw him and began to speak, but he stopped and faced 
her. He faced her, grinding his teeth, and with such an 
awful fire of fury in his eyes that she shrank from him in ter- 
ror, flattening herself against the wall. 

“ What did I tell you ? ” he said, in a choked voice, and then 
passed on. A few paces down the passage he met one of his 
own clerks, a sharp fellow enough. 

“Here Jones,” he said, “you see that woman there. She 
has made a charge against me. Watch her. See where she 
goes and find out what she is going to do. Then come and 
tell me at the office. If you lose sight of her, you lose your 
place too. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said the astonished clerk ; tind Mr. Quest was 
gone. 

He made his way direct to the office. It was closed, for 
he had told his clerks that he should not come back after 
court, and that they could go at half past four. He had his 
key, however, and entering, lit the gas. Then he went to 
his safe and sorted some papers, burning a good number of 
them. Two large documents, however, he put by his side to 
read. One was his will, and the other was endorsed “ State- 
ment of the circumstances connected with Edith.” 

First he looked through his will. It had been made some 
years ago, and was entirely in favor of his wife, or rather of 
his reputed wife, Belle. 


OOLONEL QUAHITVH, V.O, 


210 


“ It may as well stand,” he said, aloud. “If anything* hap- 
pens to me she’ll take about ten thousand under it, and that 
was Avhat she brought me.” Taking a pen he went through the 
document carefully, and whereA^er the name of “ Belle Quest ” 
occurred he xmt a and inserted these words, “ Geniiett, 
commonly known as Belle Quest,” Gennett being Bello’s 
maiden name, and initialled the correction. Next he glanced 
at the statement. It contained a full and fair account of his 
connection Avith the Avoman who had ruined his life. “ I may 
as well leave it,” he thought ; “ some day it will show Belle 
that I was not quite so bad as I seemed.” 

He replaced the statement in a brief envelope, sealed and 
directed it to Belle, and finally marked it, “ Not to be opened 
till my death. W. Quest.” Then he put the envelope away 
in the safe and took up the will for the same purpose. . Next 
it on the table lay the deeds executed by Edward Cossey, 
transferring the Honham ‘ mortgages to Mr. Quest in consid- 
eration of his abstaining from the commencement of a suit 
for divorce, in Avliich he proposed to join EdAvard Cossey as 
co-respondent. “ Ah ? ” he thought to himself, “ that game is 
up. Belle is not my legal wife, therefore I cannot commence 
a suit against her in Avhich Cossey would figure as co-respon- 
dent, and so the consideration fails. I am sorry for that, for 
I should have liked him to lose his thirty thousand pounds as 
Avell as his wife, but it can’t be helped. It Avas a game of 
bluflf, and now that the bladder has been pricked, I haven’t a 
leg to stand on.” 

Then, taking a pen, he wrote on a sheet of paper which 

he inserted in the will : “ Dear B., You must return the 

Honham mortgages to Mr. Edward Cossey. As you are not 
my legal Avife, the consideration upon AA’hich he transferred 
them fails, and you cannot hold them in equity, nor I suppose 
Avould you Avish to do so. — W. Q. ” 

HaA’ing put all the pajDers away, he shut the safe at the 
moment that the clerk Avhom he had deputed to watch the 
Tiger knocked at the door and entered. 

“ Well?” said his master. 

“ Well, sir, I watched the woman. She stopped in the 
passage for a minute, and then George, Squire De la Mode’s 
man, came out and spoke to her. I got quite close, so as to 
hear Avhat he said, and he said, ‘ You’d better get out of 
this.’ 

“ ‘ Where to ? ’ she ansAvered, ‘I’m afraid.’ 

“ ‘Back to Loudon,’ he said, and gave her a sovereign; 
and she got up Avithout a word and slunk oft’ to the station, 


220 


COLONEL qUARlTCH, V.C, 


followed by a mob of people. She’s in the refreshment-room 
now, but George sent word to say that they ought not to 
serve her with any drink.” 

“ What time does the next train go — 7.15, does it not?” 
said Mr. Quest. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, go back to the station and keep an eye upon that 
woman, and when the time comes get me a first-class return 
ticket to London. I shall go up myself and give her in 
charge there. Here is some money,” and he gave him a five- 
pound note. “ And look here, Jones ; you need not trouble 
about the change.” 

“ Thank you, sir, I’m sure,” said Jones, to whom, his 
salary being a guinea a week, on which he supported a wife 
and family, a gift of four pounds was sudden wealth. 

“Don’t thank me, but do as I tell j^ou. I will be down at 
the station at 7.10. Meet me outside and give me the ticket. 
That will do.” 

When Jones had gone, Mr. Quest sat down to think. 

So it was George who had loosed this woman on him, and 
that was the meaning of his mysterious w’arnings. How had 
he found her ? That did riot matter ; he had found her, and 
in revenge for the action taken against the De la Molle family 
he had brought her here to denounce him. It had been clev- 
erly managed too. Mr. Quest reflected to himself that he 
should never have given the man credit for the brains. Well, 
that was what came of underrating people. 

And so this was the end of all his hopes, ambitions, shifts 
and struggles ! The story would be in every paper in Eng- 
land before another tw^enty-four hours were over, headed “i?*"- 
markable Occurrence at Boisingham Quarter Sessions. — Alleged 
Bigamy of a Solicitor.” No doubt, too, the Treasury would 
take it up, and institute a prosecution. This was the end of 
his strivings after respectability and the wealth that brings it. 
He had overreached himself. He had plotted and schemed 
and hardened his heart against the De la Molle family, and 
fate had made use of his success to destroy' him. In another 
few months he had expected to be able to leave this place a 
wealthy and respected man ; and now — He laid his hand 
upon the table and reviewed his past life, tracing it up from 
year to year, and seeing how the shadow of this accursed 
woman had haunted him, bringing disgrace and terror and 
mental agony with it, making his life a rniseiy. And now 
what was to be done? He was ruined. Let him fly to the 
utmost parts of the earth, let him bury in the recesses of the 


COLONEL qUARirCH, V.C. 


221 


cities of the earth, and his shame would find him out. He 
was an impostor, a bigamist, one who had seduced an inno- 
cent woman into a mock marriag'e, and then taken her fortune 
to buy the silence of his lawful wife. More — he had threat- 
ened to bring an action for divorce against a woman to whom 
he knew he was not really married, and made it a lever to 
extort vast sums of money or their value. 

What is there that a man in his position can do ? 

He can do two things : he can revenge himself upon the 
author of his ruin ; and if he be bold enough he can put an 
end to his existence and his sorrows at a blow. 

Mr. Quest rose and walked to the door. Halting, he turned 
and looked round the office in that peculiar fashion where- 
with the eyes take their adieu. Then with a sigh he went. 

Reaching his own house, he hesitated whether or mo to 
enter. Had the news reached Belle ? If so, how was he to 
face her ? Her hands were not clean, indeed, but at any rate 
she had no mock marriage in her record, and her dislike of 
him had been unconcealed throughout. She had never 
wished to marry him, and never for one single day regarded 
him otherwise than with aversion. 

After reflection he turned and went round by the back way 
into the garden. The curtains of the French windows were 
drawn, but it was a wet and windy night, and the draught 
occasionally lifted the edge of one of them. He crept like a 
thief up to his own window and looked in. The drawing- 
room was lighted, and in a low chair by the fire sat Belle. 
She was as usual dressed in. black, and to Mr. Quest, who 
loved her, and who knew that he was about to bid farewell 
to the sight of her,, she looked more beautiful now than ever. 
A book lay open on her knee, and he noticed, not without 
surprise, that it was a Bible. But she was not reading it ; 
her dimpled chin rested on her hand, and her violet eyes 
were fixed on vacancy, and even from where he was he 
thought that he could see the tears in them. 

She had heard nothing ; he was sure of that from the ex- 
pression of her face. She was thinking of her own sorrows, 
not of his shame. Yes, he would go in. 


222 


COLON-EL qUARITGH, V.C. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 


HOW THE GAME ENDED. 


Mr. Quest entered the house by a side door and having 
taken off his hat and coat, went into the drawing-room. He 
had still half an hour to spare before starting to catch the 
train. 

“Well,” said Belle, looking up, “why are you so pale?” 

“ I have had a trying day,” he answered. “ What have you 
been doing? ” 

“Nothing in particular.” 

“ Reading the Bible, I see.” 

“How do you know that?” she asked, coloring a little, 
for she had thrown a newspaper over the book when she 
heard him coming in. “ Yes, I have been reading the Bible. 
Don’t you know that when everything else in life has failed 
them, women generally take to religion ? ” 

“Or drink,” he put in. “Have you seen Mr. Cossey 
lately?” 

“No. Why do you ask that? I thought that we had 
agreed to drop that subject.” 

As a matter of fact it had not been alluded to since Edward 
left the house. 

“ You know that Miss De la Molle will not marry him after 
all?” 


“ Yes, I know. She will not marry him because you forced 
him to give up the mortgages.” 

“You ought to be much obliged to me. Are you not 
pleased ? ” 

“No. I no longer care about anything. I am tired of 
passion and sin and failure. I care for nothing any more.” 

“ It seems that we have both reached the same goal, but by 
different roads.” 

“You?” she answered, looking up ; “ at any rate, you are 
not tired of money, or you would not do what you have done 
to get it.” 

“I never cared for money itself,” he said. “ I only wanted 
money that I might be rich and therefore respected.” 

“And you think any means justifiable so long as you get 
it ? 

“I thought so. I do not think so now.” 


COLONEL qUARITCH, KC 


223 


I don’t understand you to-niglit, William. It is time for 
me to go to dress for dinner.” 

“Don’t go just 3^et. I’m leaving in a minute.” 

“ Leaving ? Where for ? ” 

“ London. I have to go up to-night about some business.” 

“ Indeed ! When are you coming back ? ” 
i “ I don’t quite know — to-morrow perhaps. I wonder, 
i Belle,” he went on, his voice shaking a little, “ if you will 
I always think as badly of me as you do now.” 

“ I ? ” she said, opening her eyes widely. “ Who am I that 
I should judge you? However bad you may be, I am worse.” 

“ Perhaps there are excuses to be made for both of us,” he 
I said. “ Perhaps, after all, there is no such thing as free- 
Itwill, and we are nothing but pawns moved to a higher power. 

! 'VMio knows ? But I will not keep you any longer. Good- 
by. Belle!” 

“Yes.” 

“ May I kiss you before I go ? ” 

She looked at him in astonishment. Her first impulse was 
to refuse. He had not kissed her for v^ears. But something 
ifin the man’s face aroused her. It was always a refined and 
jEmelancholy face, but to-night it wore a look which to her 
jEseemed almost unearthly. 

“Yes, William, if you wish,” she said ; “ but I wonder that 
you care to.” 

“ Let the dead bury their dead,” he answered, and stoop- 
ing he put his arm round her delicate waist, and drawing her 
to him kissed her tenderl}', but without passion, on the fore- 
head. “There, good-night,” he said; “I wish that I had 
been a better husband, to you. Good-night and he was 
gone. 

When he reached his room he flung himself for a few mo- 
ments face downward upon his bed, and from the convulsive 
Imotion of his back an observer might almost have believed 

E 'lat he was sobbing. When he rose, however, there was no 
ace of tears or tenderness upon his features. On the con- 
ary, they were stern and set, like the features of one bent 
j upon some terrible endeavor. Going to a drawer, he un- 
j locked it and took from it a Colt’s revolver of the small pat- 
1 tern. It was loaded, but he took the cartridges out and re- 
f placed them with fresh ones from a tin box. Then he went 
I down -stairs, put on a large ulster with a high collar, and a 
soft felt hat, the brim of which he turned down over his face, 

! placed the pistol in the pocket of the ulster, and started. 

It was a dreadful night, the wind was blowing a very heavy 


224 


COLONEL QUARITGH, V.G, 


gale, and between the gusts the rain came down in sheets of i 
driving spray. Nobody was about the streets — the weather 
was far too bad — and Mr. Quest reached the station without 
meeting a living soul. Outside the circle of light from the 
lamp over the doorway he paused, and looked about for the 
clerk Jones. Presently he saw him walking backward and 
forward under the shelter of a lean-to, and going up, touched 
him on the shoulder. 

The man jumped and started back. 

“Have you got the ticket, Jones?” he asked. 

“ Lord, sir,” said Jones, “ I didn’t know you in that get-up. 
Yes, here’s the ticket.” | 

“ Is the woman there still ?” I 

“ Yes, sir ; she’s taken a ticket — third-class — to town. , 
She has been going on like a wild thing because they would 
not give her any liquor at the refreshment bar, till at last she 
frightened them into letting her have six of brandy. Then 
she began and told the girl all sorts of tales about you, sir; 
said she was going back to London because she was afraidj 
that if she stopped here you would mnrder her, and that youj 
were her lawful husband, and that she would have a warrant! 
out against you, and I don’t know what all. I sat by there, ^ 
and heard her with my owm ears.” ti 

“ Did she — did she indeed ?” said Mr. Quest, with an at-! 
tempt at a laugh. “ Well, she’s a common thief, and worse,! 
that’s Avhat she is, and by this time to-morrow I hope to see^ 
her safe in jail. Ah ! here comes the train. Good-night, 
Jones ; I can manage for myself noAv.” 

“What’s his game ?” said Jones to himself, as he watchedi 
his master slip on to the xdatform by a gate instead of going] 
through the booking office. “ Well, I’ve hajd four quid outl 
of it anyway, and it’s no affair of mine,” and Jones went 
home to tea. | 

Meanwhile Mr. Quest was standing on the wet and desolate 
platform quite away from the lamps, watching the red lights! 
of the approaching train come rushing on through the storm^ 
and night. Presently the train drew up. No passengers got 
out. I 

“ Now, ma’am, look sharp, if you’re going,” cried the por4 
ter, and the woman Edith came out of the refreshment-roora.| 
“ There’s the third, forrard there,” said the porter, going to 
the other end to see about the packing away of the mails. 

On she came, passing quite close to Mr. Quest; so close 
that he could hear her swearing at the incivility of the porter^ 
There was a third-class carriage just ojDposite, and into this 


COLONEL qUARITGII, V.C. 


m 


Hlie got. It was one of those carriages that are still often to 
be seen on provincial lines, in which the partitions do not go 
np to the roof, and was, if possible, more vilely lighted than 
usual. Indeed, the light which should have illuminated the 
after-half of it had either never been lit or had gone out. 
There was not a soul in the whole length of the carriage. 

As soon as the Tiger was in, Mr. Quest watched his oppor- 
tunity, and slipping up to the dark carriage, opened and 
shut the door as quietly as possible, and took his seat in the 
gloom. 

The engine whistled, there was a cry of “ Right forward !” 
and the}" were off. 

Presently he saw the ’woman stand up in her compartment 
and peep over into the gloom. 

“Not a blessed soul,” he heard her mutter; “jind yet I 
feel as though that devil Billy was creeping about after me. 
Ugh ! it must be the horrors. I can see the look the gave 
me now.” 

A few" minutes later the train stopped at a station, but 
nobody got in, and presently it moved on again. “Any 
passengers for Effry?” shouted the porter, and there had 
been no response. If they did not stop at Effry, there w"ould 
be no halt for forty minutes. Now’ was his time. He w"aited 
a little, till they had got up the speed. The line here ran 
through miles and miles of fen country, more or less drained 
1)}’ dikes and rivers, but still wild and desolate enough. 
Over this great flat the storin was sweeping furiously, even 
drow’ning in its turmoil the noise of the travelling train. 

Very quietly he rose and climbed over the low’ partition 
W’hich separated his compartment from that in which the 
W’oman was. She was seated in the corner, her head back, 
so that the feeble light from the lamp fell on it, and her eyes 
w’ere closed. 

He slid himself along the seat till he was opposite her, and 
then he paused and looked at the fierce, wicked face on w’hich 
drink and paint and years of e'vil thinking and living had left 
their marks, looked at the talon-like hands, the long yellowish 
teeth, the half-dyed hair hanging in tags beneath the gaudy 
bonnet of peacock feathers, and looking, shuddered. There 
was his bad genius ; there was the creature wdio had driven 
him from evil to evil, and finally destroyed him. Had it not 
been for her he might have been a good and respected man, and 
not w’hat he was now, a fraudulent, ruined outcast. All his 
life seemed to flash before his inner eye in those few seconds 
of contemplation, all the long weary years of struggle and 


226 


COLONEL qUARlTCIL V.C. 


crime and deceit. And tins was the end of it, and there was 
the cause of it. Well, she should not escape him ; he would 
be revenged upon her at last. There was nothing but death 
before him ; she should die too. 

He set his teeth, drew the loaded pistol from his pocket, 
cocked it and lifted it to her breast. 

What was the matter with the thing ? He had never known 
the pull of a pistol to be so heavy before. 

No, it was not that. He could not do it. He could not 
shoot a sleeping w^oman, devil though she was ; he could not 
kill her in her sleep. His nature rose up against it. 

He placed the pistol on his knee, and as he did so she 
opened her eyes. He saw the look of wonder gather in them 
and grow to a stare. of agonized terror. Her face became 
rigid like a dead person’s, and her lips opened to scream, 
but no sound came. She could only point to the pistol. 

“Make a sound, and you are dead,” he said fiercely. 
“Not that it matters, though,” he added, as he remembered 
that the scream must be loud which could be heard in that 
raging gale. 

‘AWiat are you going to do?” she gasped at last. “What 
are you going to do with that pistol ? And where do you 
come from ? ” 

“I come out of the night,” he answered, raising the wea- 
pon — “out of the night, into which you are going.” 

“You are not going to kill me?” she moaned, turning up 
her ghastly face. .“I can’t die. I’m afraid to die. It will 
hurt, and I’ve been wicked. Oh ! you are not going to kill 
me, are you ? ” 

“Yes, I am going to kill j^ou,” he answered, “I told you 
months ago that I would kill you if you molested me. You 
have ruined me now. There is nothing but death left for 
me, and you shall die, too, you fiend ! ” 

“ Oh, no ! no ! no ! Anything but th.at. I was drunk 
w^hen I did it. That man brought me there, and they had 
taken all my things, and I was starving and she glanced 
wildly round the empty carriage to see if help could be 
found, but there was none. Slie was alone with her fate. 

She slipped down upon the floor of the carriage and 
clasped his knees. Writhing in her terror there upon the 
ground, in hoarse accents she begged and prayed for mercy. 

“You used to kiss me,” she said. “You cannot kill a 
w^oman you used to kiss years ago. Oh, spare me ! spare 
me ! ” 

He set his lips, and placed the muzzle of the pistol against 


I COLONEL qUARITGH, V.C. 227 

‘ her head, and at the contact she shivered, and her teeth be- 
i gan to chatter. 

: He could not do it. He must let her go, and leave her to 

! her fate. After all, she could hurt him no more, for before 
another sun had set he would be beyond her reach. 

His pistol hand fell against his side, and he looked down 
with loathing not unmixed with pity at the abject human 
snake who was writhing at his feet. 

She caught his eye, and her faculties, sharpened by the 
imminent peril, read relentment there. For the moment, at 
an}" rate, he was softened. If she could master him now 
while he was off his guard — he was not a very strong man. 
But the pistol 

Slowly, still groaning out supplications, she rose to her 
feet. 

^‘Yes, ”he said, “be quiet while I think if I can spare 
you,” and he half turned his head away from her. And for a 
moment nothing was heard but the rush of the gale and the 
roll of the wheels running over and under bridges. 

This was her opportunity. All her natural ferocity arose 
within her, intensified a hundred times by the instinct of 
self-protection. With a sudden blow she struck the pistol 
from his hand, and it fell ujpon the floor of the carriage. 
And then, with a frightful yell, she sprang like a wildcat 
straight at his throat. So sudden was the attack that the 
long, lean hands were gripping his windpipe, before he knew 
that it had been made. Back she bore him, though he 
seized her round the waist. . She was the heavier of the two, 
find, crash ! they went against the carriage door. 

It gave ! Oh, God, the worn catch gave ! Out together, 
out with a yell of despair into the night and the raging gale, 
down together through sixty feet of space into the black 
river beneath. Down together, deep into the - watery 
depths — down into the abyss of Death. 

The train rushed on, the wild winds blew, and the night 
was as the night had been. But there in the black water, 
though there was never a star to see them, there, locked to- 
gether in death as they had been locked together in life, the 
fierce glare of hate and terror yet staring from their glazed 
eyes, two bodies rolled over and over as they sped silently 
toward the sea, 


22S 


COLONEL qUAUlTCH, V,C. 


OHAPTEK XXXm 

SISTER AGNES. 

Ten days had passed. The tragedy of which the foregoing 
is a record had echoed through all the land. Numberless 
articles and paragraphs had been written in numberless 
papers, and numberless theories had been built upon them. 
But the echoes were already commencing to die away. Both 
actors in the dim event were dead, and there was no pending 
trial to keep the public interest alive. 

The two bodies, still linked in that fierce dying grip, had 
been picked up upon a mud-bank. An inquest had been 
held, at which an open verdict was returned, and they had 
been buried. Other tragedies had occurred, the papers were 
filled with the reports of a noted and remarkably full- 
flavored divorce case, and the affair of the country lawyer who 
committed bigamy and together with his lawful wife came to 
a tragic and mysterious end began to be forgotten. 

In Boisingham and its neighborhood much sympathy was 
shown with Belle, whom people still called Mrs. Quest, 
though she had no title to that name ; but she received it 
coldly and kept herself secluded. 

. As soon as her supposed husband’s death was beyond n doubt. 
Belle had opened his safe (for he had left his keys on his 
dressing-table), and found therein his will and other })apers, 
including the mortgage deeds, to which, as Mr. Quest’s 
memorandum advised her, she had no clain^. Nor indeed 
had her right to them been good in law, would she have re- 
tained them, seeing that they were a price wrung from her 
late lover under threat of an action that could not be 
brought. 

So she made them into a parcel and sent them to Edward 
Cossey, together with a formal note of explanation, greatly 
wondering in her heart what course he would take wdtli 
reference to them. She was not left long in doubt. The 
receipt of the deeds was acknowledged, and three days after- 
ward she heard that a notice calling in the borrowed money 
had been served upon Mr. De la Molle on behalf of Edward 
Cossey. 

So he had evidently made up his mind not to forego this 
new advantage which chance threw in his way. Pressure and 
pressure alone could enable him to attain his end, and he 


COLONEL qUARlTCII, V.C, 


229 


was applying it unmercifully. Well, she had done with him 
now’ ; it did not matter to her ; but she could not help faintly 
w’onderin^ at the extraordinary tenacity and hardness of 
pui’pose which his action showed. Then she turned her 
mind to the consideration of another matter, in connection 
wdth which her plans w’ere approaching maturity. 

It was some days after this, exactly a fortnight from the 
date of Mr. Quest’s death, that Edward Cossey w’as sitting- 
one afternoon brooding over the fire in his rooms. He had 
much business awaiting his attention in London, but he 
would not go to London. He could not tear himself away 
from Boisingham, and such of the matters as could not be 
attended to there w’ere left without attention. He w’as still 
as determined as ever to marry Ida, more determined, if 
possible, for from constant brooding on the matter he had 
arrived at a condition approaching monomania. He had been 
quick to see the advantage resulting to him from Mr. Quest’s 
tragic death and the return of the deeds, and though he knew’ 
that Ida would hate him the more for doing it, he instructed 
his lawj’ers to call in the money, and make use of every 
possible legal means to harass and put pressure upon Mr. De 
la Molle. At the same time he had written privately to the 
Squire, calling his attention to the fact that matters w ere 
now’ once more as they had been in the beginning, but that he 
was, as before, willing to carry out the arrangements which 
he had already specified, provided that Ida could be persuaded 
to consent to marry him. To this Mr. De la Molle, n9twith- 
standing his grief and irritation at the course his w’ould-be 
son-in-law^ had taken about the mortgages on the death of 
Mr. Quest, and the suspicion that he now had as to the 
original cause of their transfer to the lawyer, had answ’ered 
courteously enough, saying what he had said before, that he 
could not force his daughter into a marriage with him, but 
that if she choose to agree to it he should offer no objection. 
And there the matter stood. Once or twice he had met Ida 
walking or driving. She had bowed to him coldly, and that 
was all. Indeed, he had only one ciaunb of comfort in his 
daily bread of disappointment, and that hope deferred w’hich, 
where a lady is concerned, makes the heart more than 
normally sick, and that was, he knew^ his hated rival, Colonel 
Quaritch, had been forbidden the castle, and that intercourse 
betw’een him and Ida was practically at an end. 

But he w’as a dogged and persevering man, and he knew’ 
the power of money, and the shifts to wdiich people can be 
driven who are made desperate by the w^ant of it. He knew, 


230 


COLONEL QUARITCn, V.C 


too, that it is no unusual thing for women who are attached 
to one man to sell themselves to another of their own free- 
will, realizing that love may pass, but wealth (if the settle- 
ments are properly drawn) does not. Therefore he still 
hoped that with so many circumstances bringing an ever- 
increasing pressure upon her, Ida’s spirit would in time be 
broken, her resistance would collapse, and he would have his 
will. Nor, as the sequel will show, was that hope a baseless 
one. 

As for his infatuation, there was literally no limit to it. 
It broke out in all sorts of ways, and was for miles round a 
matter of public notoriety and gossip. Over the mantel- 
piece in his sitting-room was a fresh example of it. He had 
by one means or another obtained several photographs of Ida, 
notably one of her in a court dress which she had worn two 
or three years before, when her brother James had insisted 
upon her being presented. These photographs he had 
caused to be enlarged, and had then commissioned a well- 
known artist to paint from them a full-length life-size 
portrait of Ida in her court dress, at the cost of £500. This 
order had been executed, and the portrait, which, although, 
as might be expected, the coloring was not entirely satisfac- 
factory, was still an effective likeness, and a fine piece of 
work, now hung in a splendid frame over his mantel-piece. 

There, on the evening in question, he was sitting before the 
fire, his eyes fixed upon the portrait, of which the outline was 
beginning to grow dim in the waning December light, when 
the servant-girl came in and announced thafi a lady wanted to 
speak to him. He asked what her name was, and the girl 
said that she did not know, because she had her veil down, 
and was wrapped up in a big cloak. 

In due course the lady was shown up. He had relapsed 
into his reverie, for nothing seemed to interest him much now 
unless it had to do with Ida — and he knew that the lady was 
not Ida, because the girl said that she was short. As it hap- 
pened, he was sitting with his right ear, in which he was 
stone-deaf, to the door, so that between his infirmity and his 
dreamsdie never heard Belle — for it was she — enter the room. 

For a minute or more she stood looking at him as he sat 
with his eyes fixed upon the picture, and as she looked an 
expression of pity stole across her sweet pale face. 

I wonder what curse there is laid upon us that we should 
be alwaj^s doomed to seek for what we cannot fiitd ?” she said 
aloud. 

He heard her now, and looking up, saw her standing in the 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


281 


glow and flicker of the firelight, which played upon her white 
face and black-draped form. He started violently, and as he 
did so she loosed the heavy cloak and hood that she wore, and 
it fell behind her. But where was the lovely rounded form, 
and where the clustering golden curls ? Gone, and in their 
place a coarse robe of blue serge, on which hung a crucifix, 
and the white hood of the nun. 

He sprang from his chair with an exclamation, not know- 
ing if he dreamed or if he really saw the woman who stood 
there like a ghost in the firelight. 

“ Forgive me, Edward,” she said, presently, in her sweet, 
low voice. “ I dare say that this all looks theatrical enough, 
but I have put on this dress for two reasons : firstly, because I 
have to leave this town in an hour’s time, and wish to do so 
unknown ; and secondly, to show you that yon need not fear 
that I have come to be importunate. Will you light the 
candles?” 

He did so mechanically, and then pulled down the blinds. 
Meanwhile Belle had seated herself near the table, her face 
buried in her hands. 

“ What is the meaning of aU this. Belle ? ” he said. 

“ ‘ Sister Agnes,’ you must call me now,” she said, taking 
her hands from her face. “ The meaning of it is that I have 
left the world and entered a sisterhood, which w’orks among 
the poor in London, and that I have come to bid you fare- 
well, a last farewell.” 

He stared af her in amazement. He did not find it easy 
to connect the idea of this beautiful, passionate, human, lov- 
ing creature with the cold sanctuary of a sisterhood. He did 
not know that it is natui’es like this, whose very greatness 
and intensity are often the cause of their destruction, when 
they come in adverse contact with laws which are fitted to 
the average of their race, that are most capable of these 
strange developments. The man or woman who can really 
love and endure — and they are rare — can also, when their 
passion has utterly broken them, turn them to climb the 
stony paths that leads to love’s antipodes. 

“Edward,” she went on, “you know in what relation we 
have stood to each other, and all that that relationship means 
to woman. You know that I have loved you with all my heart, 
and all my strength, and all my soul ; that your voice has 
been music tome, and your kindness heaven.” (Here she 
trembled and broke down.) 

“ You know, too,” she continued, presently, “ what has been 
the end of all this, the shameful end. I am not come to 


232 


COLONEL QVARITCH, F.C. 


blame yon. I do not blame you, for the fault was mine, and 
if I have anything to forgive, I forgive it freely ; and what- 
ever memories may still live in my heart I swear I put away 
all bitterness, and that my most earnest wdsh is that you may 
be happy, as happiness is to you. The mistake was mine ; 
that is, it would have been mine were we free agents, wdiich 
perhaps we are not. I should have loved my husband, or 
rather the man whom I thought my husband, for with all his 
faults he was of a different clay to you, Edward.” 

He looked up, but said nothing. 

“I know,” she Tvent on, pointing to the picture over the 
mantel-piece, “that your mind is still set upon, her, and that 
I am nothing, and less than nothing, to you. When I am 
gone you will scarcely give me a thought. I do not know’ if 
you will succeed in your end, and I think that the methods 
you are adopting are wicked and shameful. But whether you 
succeed or not, your fate also will be what my fate is — to love 
a person who is not only indifferent to you, but wdio posi- 
tively dislikes you, and reserves all her secret heart for 
another man, and I know no greater penalty than is to be 
found in that daily misery.” 

“ You are very consoling,” he said, sulkily. 

“I only tell you the truth,” she answ^ered. “What sort of 
life do you suppose mine has been when I am so utterly broken, 
so entirely robbed of hope, that I have determined to leave 
the world and hide myself and my misery in a sisterhood ? 

“And now, Edw’ard,” she went on, after a pause, “I have 
something to tell you, for I will not go away, if indeed you 
allow me to go away at all after you have heard it, until I have 
confessed ” — and she leant forw^ard and looked him full in the 
face. “ 1 shot you on purpose, Edward ’’ 

“ What!” he said, springing from his chair, “you tried to 
murder me ? ” 

“ Yes, yes ; but don’t think too hardly of me. I am only 
flesh and blood, and you drove me mad wdth jealousy ; you 
taunted me with having been your mistress, and said that I 
was not fit to associate with the lady wdiom you w^ere going to 
marry. It made me mad, and the opportunity offered — the 
gun was there— and I shot j^ou. God forgive me ! I think 
that I have suffered more than you did. Oh ! wdien day after 
day I saw you lying there, and did not know if you would 
live or die, I thought that I should have gone mad with re- 
morse and agony 1 ” 

He listened so far, and then suddenly w’alked across the 
room toward the bell. She placed herself between him and it. 


COLONEL cyOARITGH, V.C. 


233 


“ What are you going to do ? ” she said. 

“ Going to do ? I am going to send for a policeman and 
give you into custody for attempted murder, that is all.” 

She caught his arm and looked him in the face. In another 
second she had loosed it. 

“ Of course,” she said, “ you have a right to do that Ring 
and send for the policeman, only remember that the whole 
truth will come out at the trial.” 

This checked him, and he stood thinking. 

“ Well,” she said, “ why don’t you ring ? ” 

“I do not ring,” he answered, “because, on the whole, I 
think I had better let you go. I do not wish to be mixed up 
with you any more. You have done me mischief enough ; 
you have finished by attempting to murder me. Go ; I think 
that the convent is the best place for you ; you are too bad 
and too dangerous to be left at large.” 

“ Oh ! ” she said, like one in pain. “ Oh ! and ^’’ou are the 
man for whom I have come to this ! Oh, God 1 it is a cruel 
world.” And she pressed her hands to her heart, and stum- 
bled rather than walked to the door. 

Reaching it, she turned, and, her hands still pressing the 
coarse blue gown against her heart, she leaned her back 
against the door. 

“ Edward,” she said, in a strained whisper, for her breath 
came thick — “ Edward, I am going forever — have you no kind 
word — to say to me ? ” 

He looked at her, a scowl upon his handsome face, and 
then by way of answer he turned upon his heel. 

And so, still holding her hands against her poor broken 
heart, she went out of the house, out of Boisingham, and of 
touch and knowledge of the world. These two were, though 
she knew it not, once and once only, fated to meet again, in 
after 3"ears, and under circumstances sufficiently tragic ; but 
the story of that meeting does not lie within the scope of this 
Jiistoiy. To the world, Belle was dead ; but there is another 
world of sickness and sorrow, and sordid, unchanging misery 
:iiid shame, where the lovely face of Sister Agnes moves to and 
fro like a ra}’’ of God’s own light, and there those who would 
know her must go to seek her. 

Poor Belle ! Poor, shamed, deserted woman ! She was an 
evil-d6er, and the fatality of love and the rush of her quick 
blood, and the unbalanced vigor of her mind, which might, 
had she been more happily placed, have led her to all things 
that are pure and true and of good report, had combined to 
drag her into shame and misery. But the evil that she di4 


234 


COLONEL qUARlTCH, Y.G, 


lias been paid back to her in full measure, pressed down and 
running over. Few of us need to wait for a place of punish- 
ment to get the due of our follies and our sins. Here we ex- 
piate them. They are with us day and night, about our path 
and about our bed, scourging us with the whips of memory, 
mocking us with empty longing and the hopelessness of de- 
spair. Who can escape the consequence of sin, or even of the 
misfortune which led to sin ? Certainly Belle did not, nor 
did Mr. Quest, nor even that fierce-hearted harpy who hunted 
him to his grave. And so good-by to Belle. May she find 
peace in its season ! 


CHAPTEE XXXVm. 

COLONEL QUAKITCH EXPRESSES HIS VIEWS. 

Meanwhile things had been going very ill at the castle, 
Edward Cossey’s lawyers were carrying out their client’s in- 
structions to the letter with a perseverance and ingenuity 
w’orthy of a County Court solicitor. ' Day by day they found 
some new point upon which to harass the wretched Sqjiire, 
Some share of the first expenses connected with the mort- 
gages had, they said, been improperly thrown upon their 
client, and they again and again demanded, in language wiiich 
was almost insolent, the immediate payment of the amount. 
Then there w'as three months’ interest overdue, and this also 
they pressed and clamored for, till the old gentleman was 
nearly driven out of his senses, and as a consequence drove 
everybody about the place out of theirs. 

At last this state of affairs began to tell upon his constitu- 
tion, wiiich, strong as he was, could not at his age withstand 
such constant worry. He grew to look years older, his 
shoulders acquired a stoop, and his memory began to fail 
him, especially on matters connected with the mortgages and 
farm accounts. Ida, too, became pale and ill ; she caught a 
heavy cold which she could not throw oft’, and her face ac- 
quired a permanently pained and yet listless look. 

One day — it was on the 15 th of December — things reached 
a climax. When Ida came down to breakfast she found her 
father busy poring over some more letters from the lawyers. 

‘‘ What is it now, father ? ” she said. 

“What is it now?” he answered, irritably. “MTiy, it’s 
another claim for £200 — that’s what it is. I keep telling 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.G. 


235 


them to write to my lawyers, but they won’t, at least they 
write to me too. There, I can’t make head or tail of it. 
Look here,” and he showed her two sides of a big sheet of 
paper covered with statements of accounts. “Anyhow, I 
have not got £ 200 , that’s clear. I don’t even know where we 
are going to find the money to pay the three months’ interest. 
I’m worn out, Ida, I’m worn out ; that’s the long and short of 
it. There is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to 
die, and that’s the long and short of it. I get so confused 
with all these figures. I’m an old man now, and all these 
troubles are too much for me.” 

“ You must not talk like that, father,” she answered, not 
knowing what else to say, for affairs were indeed desperate. 

“Yes, yes, it’s all very well to talk so, but facts .are stub- 
boru. Our family is ruined, and we must/ accept it.” 

“ Cannot the money be got, anyhow ? Is there nothing to 
be done ? ” she asked, desperatel}'. 

“ What is the good of asking me that ? There is only one 
thing that can save us, and you know what it is as well as I 
do. But you are your own mistress. I have no right to put 
pressure on you. You must please yourself. Meanwhile I 
think we had better leave this place at once, and go and live 
in a cottage somewhere, if we can get enough to support us ; 
if not we must starve, I suppose. I cannot keep up appear- 
ances any longer.” 

Ida rose, and with a strange, sad light of resolution shining 
in her eyes, came to where her father was sitting, and putting 
her hand upon his shoulder, looked him in the face. 

“Father,” she said, “do you wish me to marry that 
man?” 

“ Wish you to marry him ? What do you mean ?” he said, 
not without irritation, and avoiding her gaze. “ It is no afiair 
of mine. I don’t like the man, if that’s what 3^011 mean. He 
is acting like— well, like the cur that he is, in putting on the 
screw as he is doing ; but, of course, that is the w'ay out of 
it, and the only way, and there you are.” 

“Father,” she said again, “will j'ou give me ten daj^s-^ 
that is, until Christmas-day ? If nothing happens between 
this and then I will marry Mr. Edward Cossej.” 

A sudden light of hope shone in his eyes. She saw it, 
though he tried to hide it by turning his head awa3% 

“Oh, 3'es,” he answered, “as you wish; settle it one way 
or the other on Christmas-da3', and then we can go out with 
the new year. You see your brother James is- dead, and I 
have no one left to advise me now, and I suppose that I am 


236 


COLONEL qUARlTCE, V.G. 


getting old. At any rate, things seem to be too much for 
me. Settle it as you like ; settle it as you like,” and he got 
up, leaving his breakfast half swallowed, and went off to 
moon aimlessly about the park. 

So she made up her mind at last. This was the end of her 
struggling. She could not let her old father be turned out 
of house and home to starve, for j^i’actically they would 
starve. She knew her hateful lover well enough to be aware 
that he would show no mercy. It was a question of the 
woman or the money, and she was the woman. Either she 
must let him take her, or they must be destroyed ; there was 
no middle course. And in these circumstances there was no 
room for hesitation. Once more her duty became clear to 
her. Slie must give up her life ; she must give up her love ; 
she must give up herself. Well, so be it. She was weary of 
the long endeavor against fortune ; now she would yield, and 
let the tide of utter misery sweep over her like a sea, and 
bear her away till at last it brought her to that oblivion in 
which perchance all things come right, or are as though they 
had never been. 

She had scarcely spoken to her lover, Harold Quaritch for 
some weeks. She had, as she understood if, entered into a 
kind of unspoken agreement with her father not to do so, and 
that agreement Harold had understood and respected. Since 
their Iasi; letters to each other they had met once or twice 
casually or at church, and interchanged a few indifferent 
words, though their eyes spoke another stoiy, and touched 
each other’s hands and parted, and that was absolutely all. 
But now that she had come to this momentous decision she 
felt that he had a right to learn it, and so once more she wrote 
to him. She might have gone to see him, or told him to 
meet her, but she would not. For one thing, she did not 
dare to trust herself on such an errand in his dear company ; 
for another, she was too proud, thinking that if her father 
came to hear of it he might consider that it had a clandestine 
and underhand appearance. 

And so'she wrote. With all she said we need not concern 
ourselves. The letter was passionate, more passionate than 
one would perhaps have exi^ected from a woman of Ida’s calm 
and stately sort. But a mountain may have a heart of fire 
although it is clad in snows, and so it sometimes is with wo- 
men who look cold and unemotional as marble. Besides, it 
was her last chance — she could write him no more letters, and 
she had much to saj". 

“ And so I have decided, Harold,” she said, after telling 


COLONEL QUARITCn, V.G. 


23T 


him of all her doubts and troubles. “ I must do it ; there is 
no help for it, as I think you will see. I have asked for the 
ten days’ respite — well, I really hardly know why, except that 
it is a respite. And now what is there left to say to you ex- 
cept good-by? I love you, Harold, I make no secret of it, and 
I shall never love any other. Remember all your life that I 
love 3'ou and have not forgotten you, and never can foiget. 
For people placed as we are there is but one hope — the grave. 
In the grave earthly considerations fail and earthly contracts 
end, and here I trust and believe we shall find each other — 
or at the least forgetfulness. My heart is so sore I know not 
what to say to you, for it is difficult to put all I feel in words. 
I am overwhelmed and my spirit is broken, and I wish to God 
that I were dead. Sometimes I cease to believe in a God who 
can allow his creatures to be so tormented, and give us love 
only that it may be daily dishonored in our sight ; but who 
am I that I should complain ? and after all what are our 
troubles compared to some we know of? Well, it will 
come to an end at last, and meanwhile pity me and think of 
me. 

“Pity me and think of me, yes, but never see me more. 
As soon as this engagement is publicly announced, go away, 
the farther the better. Yes, go to New Zealand, as you sug- 
gested once before, and in pity of our human weakness never 
let me see 3'our face again. Perhaps 3’ou may write to me 
sometimes — if .my — if Mr. Cossey will allow it. Go there and 
occupy yourself, it will divert j’our mind — you are still too 
young a man to la^* 3"ourself upon the shelf — mix yourself up 
in the politics of the place, take to writing, an3'thing, so long 
as 3'ou can absorb yourself. I send you a photograph of 1113’’- 
self (I have nothing better), and a ring that night and day I 
have worn since I was a child. I think that it will fit your 
little finger, and I hope that you vill always wear it in 
memory of me. And now it is late and I am tired, and what 
is there more that a woman can say to the man she loves-— 
and whom she must leave forever ? Onlj" one word — good- 
by. Ida.” 

When Harold got this letter it fairly broke him down. His 
holies had been revived when he thought that all was lost, 
and now again they were utterly dashed and broken. He 
could sec no way out of it, none at all. He could not quarrel 
with Ida’s decision, shocking as it w:is, for the simple reason 
that he knew in his heart that she was acting rightly and even 
nob’3’’. But, oh, the thought of it made him mad. It is 
probable that to a man of imagination and deep feeling Hell 


238 


COLONEL QUARTTCH, V.C 


itself can invent no more hideous torture than that he must 
undergo in the position in which Harold Quaritch found him- 
self. To truly love some good woman or some woman whom 
he thinks good — for it comes to the same thing — to love her 
more than life, to hold her dearer even than his honor, to be, 
like Harold, beloved in turn, and then to know that that wom- 
an, that one thing for which he would count the world well 
lost and would even sacrifice his hope of heaven, that light 
that makes his days beautiful, that starry joy set like a dia- 
dem upon life’s dark brows, has been taken from him by the 
mockery of Fate (not by Death, for that he could bear), taken 
from him, and given — for money or money’s worth — to some 
other man ! It is, perhaps, better that a man should die than 
that he should pass throug-h such an experience as that w^hich 
threatened Harold Quaritch now ; for, though the man die 
not, yet will it kill all that is best in him ; and whatever 
triumphs may await him, and whatever women may be ready 
in the future to pin their favors to his breast, life will never 
be for him what it might have been, because his lost love took 
its glory with Tier. 

No wonder, then that he des'paired. No wonder, too, that 
there rose up in his breast a great anger and indignation 
against the man who had brought this last extremity of mis- 
ery upon them both. He was a just man, and could make al- 
lowances for his rival’s infatuation — which, indeed, Ida being 
concerned, it was not difficult for him to understand. But 
he was also, and above all things, a gentleman ; and the spec- 
tacle of a woman being inexorably driven into a distasteful 
marriage by money pressure, put on by the man who wished 
to gain her, revolted him beyond measure, and though he was 
slow to wrath, moved him to fiery indignation. So much did 
it move him that he took a resolution: Mr. Cossey should 
know his mind about the matter, and that at once. Ringing 
the bell,'he ordered his dog-cart, and drove to Edward Oos- 
sey’s rooms, with the full intention of giving that gentleman 
a very unpleasant quarter of an hour. 

Mr. Cossey was in, and fearing lest he should refuse to see 
him, the Colonel followed the servant up the stairs, and en- 
tered almost as she announced his name. There was a grim 
and even formidable look upon his plain but manly face, and 
something of menace, too, in his formal and soldierly bearing ; 
nor did his aspect soften when his eyes fell upon the full- 
length picture of Ida over the mantel-piece. 

Edward Cossey rose with astonishment and irritation, not 
unmixed with nervousness, depicted on his face. The last 


COLONEL qUAItlTCIL V.G. 


239 


person whom he wished to see and expected a visit from was 
Colonel Quaritch, whom in his heart he held in considerable 
awe. Besides, he had of late received such a series of un- 
pleasant visits that it is not wonderful that he began to dread 
these interviews. 

“Good-day,” he said coldly. “Will you be seated?” 

The Colonel bowed his head slightly, but he did not sit 
down. 

“To what am I indebted for the pleasure? ” began Edward 
Cossey, with much politeness. 

“ Lust time I was here, Mr. Cossey,” said the Colonel, in his 
deep voice, speaking very deliberately, “I came to give an 
explanation ; now I come to ask one.” 

“ Indeed I ” • 

“ Yes. To come to the point. Miss De la Molle and I are 
attached to each other, and there has been between us an un- 
derstanding that that attachment might end in marriage.” 

“Oh, has there ?” said the younger man, with a sneer. 

“Yes,” answered the Colonel, keeping down his rising tem- 
per as well as he could. “ Bat now I am told, upon what ap- 
pears to be good authoritj”, that you have actually conde- 
scended to bring, directly and indirectly, pressure of a mon- 
etary sort to bear upon Miss De la Molle and her father in 
order to force her into a distasteful marriage with you.” 

“And what the devil business of yours is it, sir,” asked 
Cossey, “ what, I have or have not done ? Making every allow- 
ance for the disappointment of an unsuccessful suitor (for I 
presume that you appear in that character?”) — again he 
sneered — “ I ask, what business is it of yours ? ” 

“ It is every business of mine, Mr. Cossey, because if Miss 
De la Molle is forced into this, I shall lose my wife.” 

“ Then you will certainly lose her. Do you suppose that I 
am going to consider you? Indeed,” he went on, being 
now in a towering passion, “I should have thought that con- 
sidering the difference between us, of age and fortune, you 
might find other reasons than j^ou suggest to account for my 
being preferred to you, if I should be so preferred. Ladies 
are apt to choose the better man, you know.” 

“I don’t quite know what you mean by the ‘better man,’ 
Mr. Cossey,” said the Colonel, quietly. “ Without wishing to 
make any comparisons, I may say that in birth, in breeding, 
perhaps even in education and the record of my life, in which 
at least I have not disgraced myself, I am fully your equal, 
though 1 admit that you have the advantage of me in money 
and in years. However, that is not the point j the point is 


240 


COLONEL qVARrrCR, F.a 


that I have had the fortune to be preferred to you by the lady 
in question, and not you to me. I happen to know that the 
idea of marriage with you is as distasteful to Miss De la Molle 
as it is to me. This I know from her own lips. She will 
only many you, if she does at all, under the direst necessity, 
and to save her father from the ruin you are deliberately 
bringing upon liim.” 

“Well, Colonel Quaritch,” he answered, “have you quite 
done lecturing me? If 3"ou have, let me tell 3^011, as you 
seem anxious to know, that if b3' an3’ legal means I can marry 
Ida De la Molle I certainly fully intend to many her ; find 
let me tell you another thing, that when once I am married 
to her it will be the last that you shall see of her, if I can 
prevent it.” 

“ Thank 3*ou for 3"our admissions,” said Harold, still more 
quietl3'. “ So it seems that it is all true ; it seems that 3'ou 
are using your wealth to harass this unfortunate gentleman 
and his daughter until you drive them into consenting to this 
marriage. That being so, I wish to tell 3'ou privately what I 
shall probably take some opportunit3" of telling you in public, 
namel3% that a man who does such a thing is a car, and worse 
than a cur — he is a blackguard ; and you are such a man, 
Mr. Cosse3%” 

Edward Cossey’s face turned perfectly livid with fury, and 
he drew himself up as though to spring at his adversary’s 
throat. 

The Colonel held up his hand. “ Don’t tiy that on with 
me,” he said. “In the first place, it is vulgar; and in the 
second, 3’ou have only just recovered from an accident, and 
are no match for me though I am over fort3" years old. 
Listen, our fathers had a wa3' of settling their troubles ; I 
don’t approve of that sort of thing as a rule, but in some cases 
it is salutary. If you think yourself aggrieved, it does not 
take long to cross the water, Mr. Cosse3^” 

Edward Cossey looked puzzled. “ Do you mean to suggest 
that I should fight a duel with you ? ” he said. 

“To challenge a man to fight a duel,” answered the 
Colonel, wdth deliberation, “ is an indictable offence, therefore 
I make no such challenge. I have made a suggestion, and if 
that suggestion falls in with your views, as ” — and he bowed 
— “ I hope it may, we might perhaps meet accidentally abroad 
in a few days’ time, when we could talk this matter over 
further.” 

“ I’ll see 3'ou hanged first,” answered Cossey. “ What have 
I to gain by fighting you except a very good chance of being 


COLONEL QUARITCn, V.G. 


241 


shot? I have had enough of being shot as it is, and we will 
play this game out upon the old lines until I win it.” 

“As you like,” said Harold. “I have made a suggestion to 
you which you do not see fit to accept. As to the end of the 
game, it is not finished yet, and therefore it is impossible to 
say who will win it. Perhaps you will be checkmated after 
all. In the meanwhile allow’ me again to assure you that I 
consider you both a cur and a blackguard, and to wish you ' 
good-morning.” And he bowed himself out, leaving Edward 
Cossey in a curious condition of concentrated rage. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE COLONEL GOES TO SLEEP. 

The condition of mind which could induce a peaceable, 
Christian-natured individual, who had, moreover, in the 
course of his career been mixed up with enough bloodshed to 
have acquired a thorough horror of it, to ofier to fight a duel 
is difficult to picture. Yet this condition has been reached 
by Harold Quaritch. 

Edward Cossey had wdsely enough declined to entertain 
the idea, but the Colonel had been perfectly in earnest about 
it. Odd as it may appear in the latter end of this nineteenth 
century, nothing w’ould have given him greater pleasure than 
to pit his life against that of his unworthy rival. Of course 
it was foolish and wrong, but human nature is the same in all 
ages, and in the last extremity W’e fall back by instinct on 
those methods which men have from the beginning adopted 
to save themselves from intolerable wrong and dishonor, or, 
be it admitted, to bring the same upon others. 

But Cossey utterly declined to fight. As he said, he had 
had enough of being shot, and so there w’as an end of it. 
Indeed, in after-days the Colonel frequently looked back 
uj)on this episode in his career with shame not nnmingled 
with amusement, reflecting when he did so oh the strange 
potency of that passion wdiich can bring men to seriously en- 
tertain the idea of such extravagances. 

Well, there was nothing more to be done. He might, it is 
true, have seen Ida, and working upon her love and natural 
inclinations, have tried to persuade her to cut the knot by 
marrying him off-hand. Perhaps he w’ould have succeeded, 
for in such affairs women are apt to find the arguments 
16 


M2 


COLONEL qUARITCE, Y.C, 


advanced by their lovers weighty and well worthy of con- 
sideration. But he was not the man to adopt such a course. 
He did the only thing that he could do — answered her letter 
by saying that what must be must be. He had learned that 
on the day subsequent to his interview with his rival the 
Squire had written to Edward Cossey informing him that a 
decided answer would be given to him on Christmas Day, 
and that thereon all vexatious proceedings on the part of that 
gentleman’s lawyers had been stayed for the time. He could 
now no longer doubt what that answer would be. There was 
only one way out of the trouble, the way that Ida had made 
up her mind to adopt. 

So he set to work to make his preparations for leaving 
Honham and the country for good and all. He wrote to 
laud agents and put Molehill upon their books to be sold or 
let on lease, and also to various influential friends to obtain 
introductions to the leading men in New Zealand. But these 
matters did not take up all his time, and the rest of it hung 
heavily on his hands. He mooned about the place until he 
was tired. He tried to occupy himself in his garden, but it 
is weary work sowing crops for strange hands to reap, and 
BO he gave it up. 

Somehow the time wore on until at last it was Christmas 
Eve ; the eve, too, of the fatal day of Ida’s decision. He 
dined alone that night as usual, and shortly after dinner some 
waits came to the house and began to sing their cheerful 
carols outside. The carols did not chime in at all well with 
his condition of mind, and he sent five shillings out to them 
with a request that they would go away, as he had a 
headache. 

Accordingly they went ; and shortly after their departure 
the great gale for which that night is still famous began to 
rise. Then he fell to pacing up and down the quaint old 
oak-panelled parlor, thinking until his brain ached. The 
hour was at hand, the evil was upon him and her whom he 
loved. Was there no way out of it, no possible way? Alas? 
there was but one way, and that a golden one ; but where 
was the money to come from ? He had it not, and as land 
stood, it was impossible to raise it. Ah, if only that great 
treasure which old Sir James De la Molle had hid away and 
died rather than reveal could be brought to light, now in the 
hour of his house’s sorest need ! But the treasure was very 
mythical, and if it had ever really existed it was not now to 
be found. He went to his despatch-box and took from it 
the copy he had made of the enti’y in the Bible which had 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.C. 


243 


been in Sir James’s pocket when he was murdered in the court- 
yard. The whole story was a very strange one. Why did 
the brave old man wish that his Bible should be sent to his 
son, and why did he write that somewhat peculiar message in 
it? 

Suppose that Ida was right, and that it contained a cipher 
or cryptograph which would give a clue to the whereabouts 
of the treasure ? If so, it was obvious that it would be one 
of the simplest nature. A man confined by himself in a dun- 
geon and under immediate sentence of death would not have 
been likely to pause to invent anything complicated. It 
would, indeed, be curious that he should, have invented any- 
thing at all under such circumstances, and when he could 
have so little hope that the riddle would be solved. But, on 
the other hand, his position was desperate ; he was quite sur- 
rounded by foes ; there was no chance of his being able to 
convey the secret in any other way, and he might have clone so. 

Harold placed the piece of paper upon the mantel piece, 
and sitting down in an arm chair opposite, began to contem- 
plate it earnestly, as indeed he had often done before. In 
case the reader should not remember its exact wording, it is 
repeated here. It ran : Do not grieve for me, Edward, my 
son, that I am thus suddenly and wickedly done to death by rebel 
murderers, for naught happeneth but accm'ding to God’s ivill. 
And now farewell, Edward, till we shall meet in Heaven. My 
moneys have I hid, and on account thereof I die unto this world, 
knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell touch. To whom 
God shall appoint shall all my treasure be, for naught can I 
comm unicate.” 

Well, Harold stared and stared at this inscription. He 
read it forward, backward, crosswise, and in every other way, 
but absolutely without result. At last, wearied out with 
misery of mind and the pursuit of a futile occupation, he 
dropped off sound asleep in his chair. That happened about 
a quarter to eleven o’clock. The next thing that he knew 
was that he suddenly woke up ; woke up completely, passing 
as quickly from a condition of deep sleep to one of wakeful- 
ness as though he had never shut his eyes. He used to say 
afterward that he felt as though somebody had come and 
aroused him ; it was not like a natural waking. Indeed, so 
unaccustomed was the sensation that for a moment the idea 
flashed through his brain that he had died in his sleep, and 
was now awakening to a new state of existence. 

This soon passed, however. Evidently he must have slept 
some time, for the lamp was out and the fire dying. He got 


244 


COLONEL qUARITCE, F.C. 


up and hunted about in the dark for some matches, which at 
last he found. He struck a light, standing exactly opposite 
to the bit of paper with the copy of Sir James De la Mode’s 
dying message on it. This message was neatly copied long- 
wise upon a half-sheet of large writing-paper, such as the 
Squire generally used. Its first line ran as it was copied. 

“ Do not grieue for me, Edward, my son, that I am thtis sud^ 
denly and wickedly done.^’ 

Now, as the match burned up, by some curious chance, 
connected probably with the darkness and the sudden strik- 
ing of the light upon his eyeballs, it came to pass that Harold, 
happening to glance thereon, was only able to read four letters 
of this first line of writing, all the rest seeming to him but as 
a blur connecting those four letters. They were — 

D E a. d, 

being respectively the initial letters of the first, the sixth, the 
eleventh, and the sixteenth words of the line given above. 

The match burned out, and he began to hunt about for 
another. 

“ D-E-A-D,” he said aloud, repeating the letters almost au- 
tomatically. “ Why, it spells ‘ Dead.' That is rather curious.” 

Something about this accidental spelling awakened his in- 
terest very sharply — it was an odd coincidence. He lit some 
candles and hurriedly examined the line. The first thing 
that struck him was that the four letters which went to make 
up the word “dead” were about equidistant in the line of 
WTiting. Could it be ? He hurriedly counted the words in 
the line ; there were sixteen of them — that is, after the first ; 
one of the letters occurred at the commencement of every 
fifth w^ord. 

This was certainly curious. Trembling w'ith nervousness, 
he took a pencil and wrote down the initial letter of every 
fifth word in the message, thus — 

Do not grieve for me, Edward, my son, that I am thus 

D E a 

suddenly and wickedly done to death by rebel murderers, 
d m 

for naught happeneth but according to God’s will. And now 
a n 

farewell, Edward, till we shall meet in Heaven. My moneys 
s m 

have I hid, and on account thereof I die unto this world, 
o u 

knowing that not one piece shall Cromwell touch. To whom 
n t 


COLONEL qUARlTCH, V.C, 245 

God shall appoint shall all my treasure he, for naught 
a b 

can I communicate, 
c 

When he had done he wrote these initials in a line — 

DEad mans mount abc 

Great heaven ! he had hit upon the reading of the riddle! 

The answer was Dead followed by the mys- 

terious letters ABC. 

Breathless with excitement, he checked the letters again to 
see if by any chance he had made an error. No, it was per- 
fectly correct. “Dead Man’s Mount.” That was and had 
been for centuries the name of the curious tumulus or mound 
in his own back garden, the same that learned antiquarians 
had discussed the origin of so fiercely, and that his aunt, the 
late Mrs. Massey, had at the cost of two hundred and fifty 
pounds erected a mushroom-shaped roof over, in order to 
prove that the hollow in the top had once been the agi'eeable 
country-seat of an ancient British family. 

Could it then be but a coincidence that after the first word 
the initial of every fifth word in the message should spell out 
the name of this remarkable place, or was it so arranged ? 
He sat down to think it over, trembliiig like a frightened 
child. Obviously it was not accident ; obviously the prison- 
er of more than two centuries ago had, in his helplessness, 
invented this simple cryptograph, in the hope that his son, 
or, if not his son, some one of his descendants, would dis- 
cover it, and thereby become the master of the hidden 
wealth. What place would be more likely for the old knight 
to have chosen to secrete the gold than one that even in those 
days had the uncanny reputation of being haunted? Who 
would ever think of looking for modern treasure in the 
burying-place of the ancient dead ? In those days, too, Mole- 
hill, or Dead Man’s Mount, belonged to the De la Molle fam- 
ily, who had reacquired it on the break up of the Abbey. It 
was only at the Restoration, when the DGfferleigh branch 
came into possession under the will of the second and last 
baronet. Sir Edward De la Molle, who died in exile, that they 
failed to recover this portion of the joropert}’. And if this 
was so, and Sir James, the murdered man, had buried his 
treasure in the mount, what did the mj'sterious letters A B 
C mean ? Were they, perhaps, directions as to the line to be 
taken to discover it? Harold could not imagine, nor, as a 
matter of fact, did he or anybody else ever find out this, 
either then or thereafter. 


24:6 


COLONEL qUARTTCE, V.G. 


Ida, indeed, tised afterward to laughingly declare that old 
Sir James meant to indicate that he considered the whole 
thing as plain as A B C, but that was an explanation which 
did not commend itself to Harold’s practical mind. 


CHAPTER XL. 

BUT NOT TO BED. 

Harold glanced at the clock ; it was nearly one in the 
morning — time to go to bed if he was going. But he did not 
feel inclined to go to bed. If he did, with this great discov- 
eiy on his mind, he should not sleep. There was another 
thing : it was Christmas Eve, or rather Christmas Bay, the 
day of Ida’s answer. If any succor was to be given at all, it 
must be given at once, before the fortress had capitulated. 
Once let the engagement be renew^ed, and even if the money 
should subsequent^ be forthcoming, the difficulties w’ould be 
doubled. But there ; he was building his hopes upon sand, 
and he knew it. Even supposing that he held in his hand 
the key to the burial-place of the long-lost treasure, who 
knew whether it would still be there, or whether rumor had 
not enormously added to its propoi-tions ? He was allowing 
his hopes and his imagination to carry him away. 

Still he could not slee}), and he had a mind to see if any- 
thing could be made of it. Going to the gun-room, he put 
on a pair of shooting boots, an old coat, and an ulster. Next 
he provided himself with a dark lantern and the key of the 
summer-house at the top of Bead Man’s Mount, and silently 
unlocking the back door, started out into the garden. The 
night was very rough — for the great gale was now rising fast 
— and bitterly cold, so cold that he hesitated for a moment 
before making up his mind to go on. However, he did go 
on, and in another two minutes was climbing the steep sides 
of the great tumulus. There was a wan moon in the cold 
sky — the wind whistled most drearily through the naked 
boughs of the great oaks, wlvich groaned in answer like 
things in pain. Harold was not a nervous or impressionable 
man, but the place had a spectral look about it, and he could 
not help thinking of the evil reputation it had borne for all 
these ages. There was scarcely a man in Honham, or in 
Boisingham either, wdio could have been persuaded to stay 
half au hour by himself on Bead Man’s Mount after the sun 


COLONEL qUAHITCE, KC. 


247 


was well down. Harold had at different times asked one or 
two of them what they saw to be afraid of, and they had an- 
swered that it was not what they saw so much as what they 
felt. He had laughed at the time, but now he admitted to 
himself that he was anything but comfortable, though if he 
had had to put his feelings into words he could probably not 
have described them further than by saying that he had a 
general sensation of somebody being behind him. However, 
he was not going to be frightened by this nonsense ; so, con- 
signing all superstitions to their father the Devil, he marched 
on boldly and unlocked the summer house door. Now, 
though this curious edifice had been designed for a summer- 
house, and for that purpose lined throughout with encaustic 
tiles, nobody, as a matter of fact, had ever dreamed of using 
it to sit in. To begin with, it roofed over a great depression 
some thirty feet or more in diameter, for the top of the 
mount was hollowed out like one of those wooden cups upon 
which jugglers catch balls. But, notwithstanding all the en- 
caustic tiles in the world, damp will gather in a hollow like 
this, and the damp alone was an objection. The real fact 
w^as however, that the spot had an evil reputation, and even, 
those who were sufficiently well educated to know the folly of 
this sort of thing would not willingly have gone there for pur- 
poses of enjoyment. So it had suffered the general fate of 
disused places, having fallen more or less out of repair and 
become a receptacle for garden tools, broken cucumber 
frames, and lumber of various sorts. 

Harold got the door open and entered, shutting it behind 
him. It was, if anything, more disagreeable in the empty si- 
lence of the wide place — for the space roofed over was con- 
siderable — than it had been outside, and the question at 
once arose in his mind wdiat was he to do now that he had 
got there ? If the treasure was there at all, probably it w^as 
deep down in the bow’els of the great mound. Well, as he 
was on the spot, he thought that he might as well have a dig, 
though probably nothing w^ould come of it. In the corner 
were a pickaxe and some spades and shovels. Harold got 
them, advanced to the centre of the space, and half laughing 
at his own folly, set to work. First, having lit another lan- 
tern which was kept there, he removed with the sharp end of 
the pickaxe a large patch of the encaustic tiles exactly in the 
centre of the depression. Then, having loosened the soil be- 
neath with the pick, he took off his ulster and fell to digging 
with a will. The soil proved to be very sandy and easy to 
work. Indeed, from its appearance, he soon came to the 


248 


COLONEL qXJAUITCn, v.a 


conclusion that it was not virgin earth, but worked soil, 
which had been thrown there. Presently, his spade struck 
against something hard ; he picked it up and held it to the 
lantern. It proved to be an ancient spear-head, and near it 
were some bones, though whether or no they were human he 
could not at the time determine. This was very interesting, 
but it was scarcely what he wanted, so he dug on manfully 
until he found himself chest-deep in a kind of grave. He 
had been digging for an hour now, and was getting very 
tired. Cold as it was, the perspiration poured from him. 
As he paused for breath he heard the church clock strike 
two, and very solemnly it sounded down the wild ways of the 
wind-torn winter night. He dug on a little more, and then 
seriously thought of giving up what he was somewhat ashamed 
of having undertaken. How was he to account for this great 
hole to his gardener on the following morning? Then and 
there he made up his mind that he would not account for it. 
The gardener, in common with the rest of the village, be- 
lieved that the place was haunted. Let him set down the 
hole to the “ spooks” and their spiritual activity. 

Still he dug on at his grave for a little longer. It was by 
now becoming a matter of exceeding labor to throw the 
shovelfuls of soil clear of the hole. Then he determined 
to stop, and with this view scrambled, not without dif- 
ficulty, out of the amateur tomb. Once out, his e3'es 
fell on a stout iron crowbar which was standing among the 
other tools, such an implement as is used to make holes in 
the earth wherein to set hurdles and stakes ; and it occurred 
to him that it would not be a bad idea to drive this crowbar 
into the bottom of the grave which he had dug, in order to 
ascertain if there was anytljing within its reach. Accord- 
ingly, he once more descended into the hole, and began to 
work with the iron crow, driving it down with all his strength. 
When he had got it almost as deep as it would go — that is 
about three feet — it struck something — something hard — 
there was no doubt of it. He worked away in great excite- 
ment, widening the hole as rnucli as he could. 

Yes, it was masonry, or, if it was not masonry, it was 
something uncommonly like it. He drew the crow out of 
the hole, ami seizing the shovel, commenced to dig again 
with renewed vigor. As he ,could no longer conveniently 
throw the soil from the hole, he took a “ ske[V’ or leaf basket, 
which lay handy, and placing it beside him, put as much of 
the sandy soil as he could lift into it, and then lifted it and 
shot it on the edge of the pit. For three-quarters of an hour 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C, 


249 


he labored thus most manfully, till at last he came down to 
the stone-work. He cleared a patch of it and examined it 
attentively b}' the light of the dark lantern. It appeared to 
be rubble- work built in the form of an arch. He struck it 
with the iron crow, and it gave back a hollow sound. There 
was a cavity of some sort underneath. 

His excitement and curiosity redoubled. By great efforts 
he widened the spot of stone-work already laid bare. Luckily 
the soil, or rather sand, was so friable that there was very 
little exertion required to loosen it. This done, he took the 
iron crow, and inserting it beneath a loose flat stone, levered 
it up. This was a beginning, and having got rid of the large 
flat stone, he struck down again and again with all his strength 
driving the sharp point of the heavy crow into the rubble- 
work beneath. It began to give ; he could hear bits of it 
falling into the cavity below. There? it went with a crash, 
more than a square f^ ot of it. 

He leaned over the hole at his feet, devoutly hoping that 
the ground on which he was standing would not give way 
also, and tried to look down. The next second he threw 
his head back coughing and gasping. The foul air rushing 
up from the cavity or chamber, or whatever it was, had half 
poisoned him. Then, not without difiiculty, he climbed out 
of the grave and sat down on the pile of sand he had thrown 
up. Clearl}" he must let the air in the place sweeten a little. 
Clearly also he must have assistance if he was to descend into 
the great hole. He could not undertake that by himself. 

He sat there upon the edge of the pit, wondering who there 
was he could trust. Not his own gardener. To l3egin with, 
he would never come near the place at night, and, besides, 
such people talk. The Squire ? No, he could not rouse him 
at this hour, and, also, for obvious reasons, they had not 
met lately. Ah, he had it. George was the man? To begin 
with, he could be trusted to hold his tongue, and the episode 
of the production of the real Mrs. Quest had' taught the 
Colonel that George was a person of no common powers. He 
could think, and he could act also. 

He threw on his coat, extinguished the large stable lan- 
tern, and having passed out, locked the door of the summer- 
house, and started down the mount at a trot. The wind had 
risen steadily during his hours of work, and was now blowing 
a furious gale. It was about a quarter to four in the morn- 
ing, and the stars shone brightly in the hard, clean-blown 
sky. By theii* light and that of the waning moon he strug- 
gled on in the teeth of the raging tempest. As he passed 


250 


COLONEL qVARITCH, V.C, 


under one of the oaks he heard a mighty crack overhead, and 
guessing what it was, ran like a hare. He was none too soon. 
A circular gust of more than usual fierceness had twisted the 
top right out of the great tree, and down it came upon the 
turf, with a rending, crashing sound that made his blood turn 
cold. After his escape he avoided the neighborhood of the 
groaning trees. 

George lived in a neat little farm-house about a quarter of 
a mile away. There was a short cut to it across the fields, 
and this he took, breathlessly fighting his w^ay against the 
gale which swept and roared and howled in its splendid 
might as it'came leaping across the ocean from its birtlqfiace 
in the distances of air. Even the stiff hawthorn fences bowed 
before its breath, and the tall poplars on the sky-line bent like 
a rod beneath the first rush of a salmon. 

Excited as he was, the immensity and grandeur of the sight 
and sounds struck upon him with strange and awfful force. 
Never before had he felt so far apart from man and so near to 
that dread Spirit round whose feet millions of rolling worlds 
rush on forever, at whose word they are, endure, and are not. 

He struggled on until at last he reached the house. It was 
quite silent, but in one of the windows a light was burning. 
No doubt its occupants found it impossible to sleej) in that 
wild gale. The next thing was to consider how to make him- 
self heard. To knock at the door would be useless in that tur- 
moil. There was only one thing to be done — throw stones 
at the window. He found a good-sized pebble, and standing 
underneath, threw it with such good-will that it went right 
through the glass, lighting, as he afterwards heard, full upon 
Mrs. George’s sleeping nose, and nearly frightening that good 
woman, whose nerves were already shaken by the gale, into 
a fit. Next minute a red nightcap appeared at the window. 

“ George ! ” roared the Colonel, in a lull of the gale, 

“Who’s there ? ” came the faint answer. 

“ I — Colonel Quaritch. Come down. I want to speak to 
you.” 

The head was withdrawn, and a couple of minutes after- 
ward Harold saw the front door begin to open slowly. He 
waited till there was space enough, and then slipped in, and 
together they forced it to. 

“ Stop a bit, sir,” said George ; “ I’ll light the lamp,” and 
he did. 

Next minute he stepped back in amazement. 

“Why, what on arth hev you bin after, sir?” he said, con- 
templating Harold’s filth-begrimed face and hands and 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.G. 251 

clothes. Is anything wrong up at the Castle, or is the cot- 
tage blown down ? ” 

“No, no,” said Harold ; “listen. You’ve heard tell of the 
treasures that old Sir James De la Molle buried in the times 
of the Koundheads ? ” 

“ Yes, yes. I’ve heard tell of that. Hev the gale blown it 
up?” 

“ No ; but by Heaven I believe that I am in a fair way to 
find it.” 

George took another step back, remembering the tales that 
Mrs. Jobsoii had told, and not being by any means sure that 
the Colonel was not in a dangerous condition of lunacy, 

“ Give me a glass of something to drink, water or milk, and 
I’ll tell you. I’ve been digging all night, and my throat’s 
like a lime-kiln.” 

“ Digging ? why where ? ” 

“ Where ? In Dead Man’s Mount.” 

“In Dead Man’s Mount?” said George. “Well, blow me 
if that ain’t a funny place to dig on a night like this ! ” and 
too amazed to say anything more, he went off to get the milk. 

Harold drank three glasses without stopping, and then sat 
down to tell as much of his moving tale as he thought desirable. 


CHAPTER XLL 

HOW THE NIGHT WENT. 

George sat opposite to him, his hands on his knees, the red 
nightcap on his head, and a comical expression of astonish* 
ment upon his melancholy countenance. ' 

“ Well,” he said, when Harold had done, “blow me if that 
ain’t a master one. And yet there’s folks who say that there 
ain’t no such thing as Prowidence — not that there’s anything 
prowided yet — p’r’aps there ain’t nawthing there after all.^’ 
“I don’t know if there is or not, but I’m going back to see, 
and I want you to come with me now.” 

“Now?” said George, rather uneasily. “Why, Colonel, 
that bain’t a very nice spot to go digging about in on a night 
like this. I iiiver heard no good of that there place — not as 
I holds by sich talk myself,” he added, apologetically. 

“ Well,” said the Colonel, “ you can do as you like, but I’m 
going back at once, and going down the hole too ; the gas 
must be out of it by now. There are reasons,” he added. 


253 


COLOKEL QUARITCU, 7.(7. 


“ why, if this money is to be found at all, it should be found 
this morning. To-day is Christmas Day, you know.” 

“ Yes, yes. Colonel ; I know what you mean. Bless you, I 
know all about it ; the old Squire must talk to somebody ; 
if he don’t he’d bust ; so he talks to me; That Cossey’s com- 
ing for his answer from Miss Ida this morning. Poor young 
lady, I saw her yesterday, and she looks like a ghost, she du. 
Ah, he’s a mean one, that Cossey. Laryer Quest waru’t in it 
with him after all. Well, I cooked his goose for him, and I’d 
give sommut to have a hand in cooking that banker chap s 
too. You wait a minute, (Colonel, and I’ll come along*, gale 
and ghostesses and all. I only hope it mayn’t be after a fool’s 
eri'and, that’s all and he retired to put on his boots. Pres- 
ently he appeared again, his red nightcap still on his head — 
for he was afraid that the wind would blow a hat off — and 
carrying an unlighted lantern in his hand. . 

“ Now Colonel, I’m ready, sir, if you be and they started. 

The gale was, if anything, fiercer than ever. Indeed, there 
had been no such tempest in those parts for years, or rather 
centuries, as the condition of the timber by ten o’clock that 
morning amply testified. 

“This here wind must be like that as the' Squire tells us on 
in the time of King Charles, as blew the top of the church 
tower off on a Christmas night,” shouted George ; but Har- 
old made no answer ; and they fought their way onward 
without speaking any more, for their voices were almost in- 
audible. Once the Colonel stopped and pointed to the sky- 
line. Of all the row’ of tail poplars which he had seen bend- 
ing like whips before the wind as he came along, but one 
remained standing now', and as he pointed that vanished 
also. 

Beaching the summer-house in safety, they entered, and 
the Colonel shut and locked the door behind them. The 
frail building was literally rocking in the fury of the storm. 

“I hope the roof will liold,” shouted George, but Harold 
took no heed. He was thinking of other things. They lit 
the lanterns, of which they now had three, and the Colonel 
slid down into the great grave he had so industriously dug, 
motioning to George to follow. This that worthy did, not 
without trepidation. Then they both knelt and stared dowm 
through the hole in the masonry, but the light of the lanterns 
was not strong enough to enable them to make out anything 
W’ith clearness. 

“Well,” said George, falling back upon his favorite expres- 
sion in his amazement, as he drew his nightcapped head fi’om 


COLONEL qUARITCH, V.G. 253 

the hole, if that ain’t a master one, I niver saw a masterer, 
that’s all.” 

“ What be you a-going to do now, Colonel ? Hev you a 
ladder here ?” 

“No,” answered Harold ; “I never thought of that; but 
I’ve a good rope : I’ll get it.” 

Scrambling out of the bole, he presently returned with a 
long coil of stout rope. It belonged to some men who bad 
been recently employed in cutting boughs off such of the oaks 
as needed attention. 

They undid the rope and let the end down to see how deep 
the pit was. When they felt that the end lay upon the floor 
they pulled it up. The depth from the hole to the bottom 
of the pit appeared to be about sixteen feet, or a trifle more. 

Harold took the iron crow-bar, aiid having made the rope 
fast to it, fixed the bar across the mouth of the aperture. 
Then he doubled the rope, tied some knots in it, and let it 
down into the pit, preparatory to climbing down it. 

But George was too quick for him. Forgetting his doubts 
as to the wisdom of groping about Dead Man’s Mount at night 
in the ardor of his burning curiosity, he took the daik lan- 
tern and holding it in his teeth, passed his body through the 
hole in the masonry and cautiously slid down the rope. 

“Are you all right?” asked Harold, in a voice tremulous 
with excitement, for was not his life's fortune trembling on 
the turn ? 

“ Yes,” answered George, in a doubtful voice, and Harold, 
looking down, could see that he was holding the lantern 
above his head and staring at something very hard. 

Next moment a most awful howl of terror echoed up 
through the pit, the lantern was dropped upon the ground, and/ 
the rope commenced to be agitated with the utmost violence. 

In anotlier two seconds George’s red nightcap appeared 
through the hole, followed by a face that was literally livid 
wuth terror. 

“Let me up, for God’s sake,” he gasped, “or he’ll hev me 
by the leg ! ” 

“He! who? ’’asked the Colonel, not without a thrill of 
superstitious fear, as he dragged the panting man through 
the hole. 

But George would give no answer until he was through 
the hole and out of the grave. Indeed, had it not been for 
the Colonel’s eager entreaties, backed to some extent by 
actual force, he would have been out of the summer-houae 
and half-way down the mount by now. 


254 


COLONEL qUAPdTCB, F.(7. 


“What is it?” roared the Colonel, in the hole, to George, 
who, shivering with terror, was standing on the edge thereof. 

“ It’s a blessed ghost, that’s what it is. Colonel,” answered 
George, keeping his eyes fixed upon the hole as though he 
momentarily expected to see the object of his fears emerge. 

“Nonsense,” said Harold, doubtfully. “What rubbish 
you talk ! What sort of a ghost ?” 

“A white ’un,” said George ; “ all bones like.” 

“All bones?” answered the Colonel; “why, it must be a 
skeleton.” 

“I don’t say that he ain’t,” was the answer ; “but if he be, 
he’s seven foot high, and sitting airing of hisself in a stone 
bath.” 

“Oh, rubbish!” said the Colonel. “How can a skeleton 
sit and air himself? He would tumble to bits.” 

“I don’t know ; but there he is ; and they don’t call this 
place ‘ Dead Man’s Mount ’ for nawthing.” 

“ Well,” said the Colonel, argumentatively, “a skeleton is 
a perfectly harmless thing.” 

“ Yes, if he’s dead, maybe, sir ; but this one’s alive ; I saw 
him nod his head at me.” 

“ Look here, George,” answered Harold, feeling that if this 
went on much longer he should lose his nerve altogether, 
“ I’m not going to be scared. Great heavens, what a gust ! 
I’m going down to see for myself.” 

“Very good, Colonel,” answered George; “and I’ll wait 
here till you come up again — that is if you iver du.” 

Thrice did Harold look at the hole, and thrice, like false 
Sextus, did he shrink back. 

“Come,” he shouted, angrily, “ don’t be an infernal fool ; 
get down here and hand me the lantern.” 

George obeyed with evident trepidation. Then Harold got 
through the hole, and with many an inward tremor — for 
there is scarcely a man on the earth who is really free from 
supernatural fears — descended hand over hand. But in so 
doing he managed to let the lantern fall, and it went out. 
Now, as the reader will probably admit, this was exceedingly 
trying. It is not pleasant to be left alone in the dark under- 
ground in the company of an unknown “spook.” He had 
some matches, but what between fear and cold, it was some 
time before he could get a light. Down in this deep place 
the rush of the great gale reached his ears like a faint and 
melancholy sighing, and he had heard other tapping noises, 
or he thought he did— noises of a creepy and unpleasant 
nature. Would the matches never light? The chill and 


COLONEL QUARITCn, Y.C, 


255 . 


death-like damp of the place struck to his marrow, and the 
cold sweat poured from his brow. Ah ! at last! He kept his 
eyes steadily fixed upon the lantern till he had lit it and it 
was burning- up brightly. Then by an effort he lifted his 
eyes and looked round him. 

And this is what he saw : 

There, three or four paces from him, in the centre of the 
chamber of Death, sat, or rather laj^ a figure of Death. It 
reclined in a stone chest or coffin, like a man in a hip-bath 
which is too small for him. Tlie bony arms hung down on 
either side, the bony limbs projecting toward him, the great 
white skull hung forward over the massive breast-bone. It 
moved, too, of itself, and as it moved, the jaw-bone tapped 
against the breast, and the teeth clicked gentW together. 

Terror seized him wdiile he looked, and, as George had 
done, he turned to fl}'. How could that thing move its 
head ? The head ought to fall off. 

Seizing the ro^De, he jerked it violently in the first effort of 
mounting. 

Hev he got 3 ’ew, Colonel ? ” sang out George, above ; and 
the sound of a human voice brought him back to his senses. 

“No,” he answered, as boldly as he could; and then, set- 
ting his teeth, turned, and tottered straight at the Horror in 
the chest. 

He was there now, and holding the lantern straight against 
the thing, examined it. It was a skeleton of enormous size, 
and th(3 skull was fixed to the vertebra with rusty wire. 

At this evidence of the handiwork of man his fears almost 
vanished. Even in that company he could not help remember- 
ing that it is scarcely to be supposed that spiritual skeletons 
carry about wire with which to tie on their skulls. \ 

With a sigh of relief he held up the lantern and looked 
around. ' He was standing in a good-sized vault or chamber 
built of rubble stone. Some of this rubble had fallen in to 
his left ; but otherwise, though the workmanship showed that 
it must be of extreme antiquity, the stone lining was still 
strong and good. He looked upon the floor, and then for the 
first time perceived that the nodding skeleton before him was 
not the only one. All round lay remnants of the mighty dead. 
There they were, stretched out in the form of a circle, of which 
the stone kist was tlie centre. * One place in the circle was 
vacant ; evidently it had once been occupied by the giant 

* At Buncfav, in Suffolk there recently stood a mound or tumulus on 
which was built a windmill. Some years ago the windmill was pulled 
down, and the owner of the ground, wishing to build a house upon the 


/ 


256 


COLONEL qUARITCn, V.C, 


frame which now sat within the kist. Next he looked at the 
kist itself. It had all the appearance of one of those rude 
stone chests in which the very ancient inhabitants of this island 
buried the ashes of their cremated dead. But if this was so, 
whence came the uncremated skeletons ? 

Perhaps a subsequent race or tribe had found the chamber 
ready prepared, and used it to bury some among them who 
had fallen in battle. It w'as impossible to say more, especially 
as, wdth one exception, there wais nothing buried with the 
skeletons which would assist to identify' their race or age. That 
exception was a dog. A dog had been placed b}' one of the 
bodies. Evidently, from the position of the bones of its mas- 
ter’s arms, he had been left to his last sleep with his hand 
resting on his hound’s head. 

Bending dowm, Harold examined the seated skeleton more 
closely. It was, he discovered, accurately jointed together 
with strong wire. Clearly this was the w’ork of hands w’hich 
w^ere born into the world long after the flesh on those mighty 
bones had crumbled into dust. 

But where was the treasure ? He saw none. His heart 
sank as the idea struck him that he had made an interesting 
archaeological discovery, and that w'as all. Before undertak- 
ing a closer search he returned to the hole and halloed to 
George to come down, as there was nothing but some bones 
to frighten him. 

This the worthy George was at length, with much difficulty, 
persuaded to do. 

Wlien at last he stood beside him in the vault, Harold ex- 
plained to him what the jflace was and how ridiculous were 
his fears, without, however, succeeding in allaying them to any 
considerable extent. 

And really when one considers the position, shut up as they 
were in the bowels of a place which had for centuries owned 
the reputation of being haunted, faced by a nodding skeleton 
of almost superhuman size, and surrounded by various other 
skeletons, all “very fine and large,” with the most violent 
tempest that had visited the country for years sighing away 
outside, it is not wonderful that George was scared. 

site, set to work to cart away the mound His astonishment may he con- 
ceived when he found in the mound a great numl>er oi' skeletons arranged 
in circles. These skeletons were of large size, and a gentleman who >-aw 
them informed me that he measured one. It was over seven feet high. 
The bones were, unhappily, carted avvay and thrown into a dike. But 
no house has been bnilt upon the site of the resting-place of those un- 
known warriors. — AuTHOii. 


COLONEL quahitce, v.a 


257 


‘“Well,” he said, his teeth chattering, “if this ain’t the 
masterest one that iver I did see ! ” But here he stopped ; 
language was not equal to the expression of his feelings. 

Meanwhile Harold, with a heart full of anxiety, was turning 
the lantern this way and that, in the hope of discovering some 
traces of Sir James’s treasure, but naught could he see. 
There to the left, the masonry was fallen in. He went to it, 
and pulled aside some of the stones. There was a cavity be- 
hind, apparently a passage, leading no doubt to the secret 
entrance to the vault, but he could see nothing in it. Once 
more he searched round. There was nothing. Unless the 
treasure was buried somewhere, or hidden away in the pas- 
sage, it was non-existent, that was all. 

And yet what was the meaning of that jointed skeleton sit- 
ting in the stone bath ? It must have been put there for some 
purpose, probably to frighten would be plunderers away. 
Could he be sitting on the money ? He rushed to the chest, 
and looked through the bony legs. No ; his pelvis rested on 
the stone bottom of the kist. 

“ Well, George, it seems we’re done,” said Harold, with a 
ghastly atternpt at a laugh. “ There’s no treasure here.” 

“ Maybe it’s underneath that there stone cornbin,” suggested 
George, whose teeth were still chattering. “It shonld be 
here or hereabouts, surely.” 

This was an idea. Helping himself to the shoulder-blade 
of some deceased hero, Harold, using it as a trowel, began 
to scoop away the soft sand upon which the stone chest 
stood. 

He scooped and scooped manfully, but he could not come 
to the bottom of the kist. 

He stepped back and looked at it. It must be one of 
two things — either the hollow at the top was but a shallow 
cutting in a great block of stone, or the kist had a false 
bottom. 

He literally sprang at it, and seizing the giant skeleton by 
the spine, jerked it out of the kist, and dropped it into a 
bristling bony heap on one side. Just as he did so there 
came a gust of wind so furious that buried as they were in 
the earth, they literally felt the mound rock beneath it. In- 
stantly it was followed by a frightful crash overhead. 

George collapsed in terror, and for a moment Harold 
could not for the life of him think what had happened. He 
ran to the hole and looked up. Straight above him he could 
see the sky, in which the first cold lights of dawn were quiver- 
ing. Mrs. Massey’s summer-house had been blown bodily 
17 


258 


COLONEL QTIARITCE, V.G. 


away, and the “ ancient Britisli dwelling-place ” was once more, 
as it had been for centuries, open to the sk3\ 

“ The summer-house has gone, George,” he said. “ Thank 
God that we were not in it, or we should have gone too I ” 

“ Oh, Lord, sir ! ” groaned the unhaj^py George. “ This is 
an awful business. It’s like a judgment.” 

“It might have been, if we had been up above instead of 
safe down here,” he answered. “ Come, bring that other 
lantern.” 

George roused himself, and together they bent over the 
now empty kist, and examined it closely. 

The stone bottom was not of quite the same color as the 
walls of the kist, and there was a crack across it. Harold 
felt in his pocket aud drew out his knife, which had at the 
back of it one of those strong iron hooks that are used to ex- 
tract stones from the hoofs of horses. This hook he worked 
into the crack, and managed before it broke to pull up a frag- 
ment of stone. Then, looking round, he found- among the 
rubbish, where the wall had fallen in, a long sharp flint. 
This he inserted in the hole, and they both levered away at 
it. 

Half of the cracked stone came up a few inches, far enough 
to allow them to get their fingers underneath it. So it was a 
false bottom. 

“ Catch hold,” gasped the Colonel, “ and pull for your 
life.” 

George did as he was bid ; and setting their knees against 
the hollowed stone, they tugged till their muscles cracked. 

“ It’s a-moving,” said George. “ Now, then. Colonel ! ” 

Next second they both found themselves on the flat of 
their backs. The stone had given with a run. 

Up sprang the Colonel like a kitten. The broken stone 
was standing edgeways in the kist. There was something 
soft beneath it. 

“ The light, George ! ” he said, hoarsely. 

Beneath the stone were some layers of rotten linen. 

Was it a shroud, or what ? 

They pulled the linen out by handfuls. One ! two ! three I 

Oh, great heaven ! 

There, under the linen, was row on row of shining gold 
coins set edgeways. 

For a moment everything swam before Harold’s eyes, and 
his heart stopped beating. As for George, he muttered some- 
thing inaudible about its being a “master one,” and col- 
lapsed. 


COLONEL QUARITCII, V.G. 


259 


With trembling fingers Harold managed to pick out two 
pieces of gold which had been disturbed by the unheaval of 
the stone, and held them to the light. He was a skilled nu- 
mismatologist, and had no dijfficulty in recognizing them. 
One was a beautiful three-pound piece of Charles I and the 
other a Spur Royal of James I . 

That proved it. There was no doubt that this was the 
treasure hidden by Sir James De la Molle, and he it must 
have been also who had conceived the idea of putting a false 
bottom to the kist, and setting up the skeleton to frighten 
marauders from the treasure, if by any chance one should 
enter. 

For a minute or two the men stood staring at each other 
over the great treasure which they had unearthed in that 
dread place, shaking with the reaction of their first excite- 
ment, and scarcely able to speak. 

“ jBow deep du it go ? ” said George. 

Harold got. his knife and loosed some of the top coins, 
which were very tightly packed, till he could move his hand 
in them freely. Then "he pulled out handful after handful of 
every sort of gold coin. There was a Rose Noble of Edward 
rV. ; double sovereigns of Henry VHI. ; triple sovereigns and 
gold crowns of Edward VI. ; double rials, rials, and angels of 
Mary ; rose royals, spur royals, angels, large sovereigns, and 
laurels of James I. ; double rials and rials of Elizabeth ; three- 
pound pieces, broads and half-broads, of Charles I., some in 
greater quantity and some in less, but all were represented. 
Handful after handful did he pull out, and yet the bottom 
was not reached. At last he came to it. The layer of gold 
pieces was about thirty inches thick by three feet six long. 

“ We must get this into the house, George, before anyone\ 
is about,” gasped the Colonel. 

“Yes, sir, yes; but how be we a-going to carry it?” 

Harold thought for a minute, and then acted thus : Bidding 
George stay in the vault with the treasure, which he was with 
difficulty persuaded to do, he climbed the improvised rope' 
ladder, and got in safety through the hole. In his excite-, 
ment he had forgotten about the summer-house having been 
carried away by the gale, which was still blowing, though 
with not so much fury as before, and the wind-swept desola- 
tion that met his view as he emerged into the dawning light 
broke upon him with a shock. The summer-house was clean 
gone ; nothing but a few uprights remained of it ; and fifty 
yards away he thought he could make out the crumpled-up 
shape of the roof, Nor was that all. Quite a quarter of th® 


260 


COLONEL QUARTTCH, V.C, 


great oaks wliicb were the glory of the place were down, or 
splintered and ruined. But what did he care for tbe summer- 
house or the oaks now ? Forgetting his exhaustion, he ran 
down the slope and reached the house, which he entered as 
softly as he could by the side door. Nobody was about yet, 
or would be for another hour. It ■was Christmas Daj", and 
not a pleasant morning to get up on, so the servants would be 
sure to lie abed. On his way to his bedroom he peeped into 
the dining-room, where he had fallen asleep on the previous 
evening. When he had woke up, it may be remembered, he 
lit a candle. This candle was now flaring itself to death, for 
he had forgotten to extinguish it, and by its side lay the 
paper from which he had made the great discovery. There 
was nothing in it, of course, but somehow the sight impressed 
him very much. It seemed months since he awoke to find 
the lamp gone out. How much may happen between the 
lighting of a candle and its burning away ! Smiling at this 
trite reflection, he blew that light out, and taking another, 
went to his room. Here he found a stout hand-bag, with 
which he made haste to return to the Mount. 

‘‘ Are you all right, George ? ” he shouted down the hole. . 

‘‘Well, Colonel, yes, but not sorry to see you back. It's 
lonesome like down here with these deaders.” 

“ Very well. Look out ! There’s a bag. Put as much 
gold in it as you can lift comfortably, and then make it fast 
to the rope.” 

Some three minutes passed, and then George announced 
that the bag full of gold was read3% Harold hauled away, 
and with a considerable effort brought it to the surface. 
Tnen, getting the bag on to his shoulder, he staggered off 
with it to the house. In his room stood a massive sea-going 
chest, the companion of his many wanderings. It was about 
half full of uniforms and old clothes, which he bundled 
uticeremoniously on to the floor. This done, he shot the bag- 
ful of sliming gold, as bright and uncorrupted now as when 
it was packed away two and a half centuries ago, into the 
chest, and returned for another load. 

Twenty times did he make this journey. At the tenth 
something happened. 

“ Here’s a writing, sir, with this lot,” shouted George. “ It 
was packed away in the money.” 

He took the “ writing,” or rather parchment, out of the 
mouth of the bag, and put it in his pocket unread. 

At last the store, enormous as it was, was exhausted. 

“ That’s the lot, sii*,” shouted George, as he sent up the 


COLONEL qUAPJTCII, V.O. 


261 


twentietli bagf al. ‘‘ If you’ll kindly let down that there rope, 
I’ll come up too.” 

“All right,” said the Colonel, “put the skeleton back 
first.” 

“Well, sir,” answered George, “he looks wonderful com- 
fortable where he lay, he du, so if you’re agreeable I think 
I’ll let him ■ bel” 

Harold chuckled, and presently George arrived, covered 
with filth and perspiration. 

“ Well, sir,” he said, “ I never did think that I should get 
dead tired of handling gold coins ; but it’s a rum world, and 
that’s a fact. Well, I nivir, and the summer-house gone, and 
jist look at thim there oaks ! Well, if that beaut a master 
one ! ” 

“ You never saw a masterer, that’s what you were going 
to say, w'asii’tit? Well, and take one thing with another, 
nor did I, George, if that’s any comfort to 3’ou.” 

“Now look here, just cover over this hole with some boards 
and earth, and then come in and get some breakfast. It’s 
eight o’clock and past, and the gale is blowing itself out.” 

“ A merry Christmas to j'ou, George ! ” and he held out his 
hand, covered with cuts and grime and blood. 

George shook it. “ Same to you, Colonel, I’m sure. And 
a meiTy Christmas it is. God bless 3'ou, sir, for what you’\e 
done to-night ! You’ve saved the old place from that banker 
chap, that’s w’hat you’ve done ; and you’ll have Miss Ida, and 
I’m durned glad on it, that I am. Lord ! won’t this make the 
Squire open his e^^es ! ” and the honest fellow brushed awa}’’ a 
tear and fairly capered with joy, his red nightcap waving* on 
the breeze. 

It was a strange and beautiful sight to see the solemn 
George papering thus in the midst of that windy desola- 
tion. 

Harold was too moved to answer, so he shouldered his last 
load of treasure and limped off with it to the house. Mrs. 
Jobson and her talkative niece were up now, but they did not 
happen to see him, and he reached his room in safety. He 
poured the last bagful of gold into the chest, and smoothed it 
down. It filled it to the brim. He shut the chest and locked 
it, and then, as he was, covered with filth and grime, bruised 
and bleeding, and his hair flying wildly about his face, he sat 
down upon it, and from his heart thanked Heaven for the 
wonderful thing that had happened to him. 

So exhausted was he that he nearl}^ fell asleep as he sat ; 
but remembering himself, he rose, and taking the parchment 


262 COLONEL QUARITCE, V.C. 

from his pocket, he cut the faded silk with which it was tied, 
and opened it. 

On it was a short inscription in the same crabbed writing 
which he had seen in the old Bible that Ida had found. 

It ran as follows : 

“ Seeing that the times be so troublous that no man can be 
sure of his own, I, Sir James De la Molle, have brought to- 
gether all iny substance in money from wheresoever it lay at 
interest, and have hid the same in this sepulchre, to which I 
found the entry by a chaDce, till such time as peace come 
back to this unhappy England. This have I done on Christ- 
mas Day, in the year of our Lord 1643, having completed 
the hiding of the gold while the great gale was blowing. 

“James De la Molle.” 

Thus on a long gone Chrismas Day, in the hour of a great 
wind, was the gold hid, and now on this Christmas Day, when 
another great wind raged overhead, was it found once more, 
just in time to save a daughter of the house of De la MoUa 
from a fate as bad as death. 


CHAPTEK XLn. 

IDA GOES TO MEET HER FATE. 

Most people of a certain age and a certain degree of sensi- 
tiveness of disposition, in looking back down the vista of 
their lives, whereon memory’s melancholy light plays in fitful 
flashes like the alternate glow of a censer swung in the twi- 
light of a tomb, can recall some one night of peculiar mental 
agon3^ It may have come when first we found ourselves face 
to face with the chill and hopeless horror of departed life ; 
when, in our soul’s despair, we stretched out vain hands and 
wept, called and no answer came ; wdien we kissed those be- 
loved lips and sunk aghast at the contact with their clay, 
those lips more eloquent now in the rich pomp of their unut- 
terable silence than in the brightest hour of their unsealing. 
It may have come when our honor and hope of all our days 
lay at our feet shattered like a shred on the hard roadway of 
the world. It may have come when she, the sweet star of 
our youth, the pure and holy thing, the type of completed 
beauty and woman’s most perfect measure, she to whom was 


COLONEL qUARITCE, V.C 


263 


given the chalice of our joy, and who held in her white hand 
the love-begotten germ of all our power, ruthlessly emptied 
and crushed it, and, as became a star, slid down our horizon’s 
ways to rise upon some other sk3\ Or it may have come 
when Brutus stabbed us, or when a child whom we had cher- 
ished struck us with a serpent-fang of treachery, and left, the 
icy poison to creep upon our heart. One way or another it 
has been with most of us, that long night of utter woe, and 
all will own that it is a ghastly thing to face. 

And so Ida De la Molle had found it. The shriek of the 
great gale rushing on that Christmas eve round the stout 
Norman towers was not more strong than the breath of de- 
spair that shook her life. She could not sleep — who could 
sleep on such a night, the herald of such a morrow ? The 
wail and roar of the wind, the crash of falling trees, and the 
rattle of flying stones seemed to form a fit accompaniment to 
the turmoil of her mind. 

SVie rose, and putting on her dressing-gown, went to the 
window, and in the dim light watched the trees gigantically 
tossing in a great struggle for their life. An oak and a birch 
were within her view. The oak stood the gale out — for a 
while. Presently there came an awful gust and beat upon it. 
It would not bend, and the tough roots would not give, so 
beneath the weight of the breath of its destiny the big tree 
broke in two like a straw, and its spreading top was whirled 
into the moat. But the birch gave and bent ; it bentf till its 
delicate filaments lay upon the wind like a woman’s stream- 
ing hair, and the fierceness of the gust wore itself away and 
spared it. 

“See what happens to those who stand up and defy their 
fate,” said Ida to herself with a bitter laugh. “ That birch 
has the best of it.” 

Ida rose and closed the shutters ; the sight of the storpa 
afiected her already strained nerves almost beyond bearing. 
She began to walk up and down the big room, flitting like a 
ghost from end to end and back again, and again back. What 
could she do ? What should she do ? Her fate was upon her : 
she could no longer resist the inevitable — she must marry him. 
And yet her whole soul revolted from the act with an over- 
whelming fierceness which astonished even herself. She had 
known two girls who had married people whom they did not 
like, being at the time, or pretending to be, attached to some- 
body else, and she had observed that they accommodated 
themselves to their fate with considerable ease. But it was 
not so with her ; she was fashioned of another clay, and it 


264 


COLONEL qUARlTGU, V.O. 


made her faint to think of what was before her. And yet the 
prospect was one on which she could expect little S3’njpathy. 
Her own father, although personally he disliked the man 
whom she must marrj^ was clearly filled with amazement that 
she should prefer Colonel Quaritcli, middle-aged, poor, and 
plain, to Edward Cosse}' — handsome, young, and rich as 
Croesus. He could not compiiehend or measure the extraor- 
dinary gulf which her j)assion had dug between the two. If, 
therefore, this was so with her own father, how would it be 
with the rest of the woild ? 

She paced her bedroom till she was tired, and then, in an 
access of despair, which w.as sufficiently distressing in a i^erson 
of her reserved and stately manner, flung herself, weeping and 
sobbing, upon her knees, and, resting her aching head upon 
the bed, prayed as she had never prayed before that this cup 
might pass from her. She did not know — how should she? — 
that at that very moment her prayer was being answered, and 
that her lover was then, even as she praj’ed, lifting the broken 
stone and revealing the hoard of ruddy gold. But so it was ; 
she prayed in despair'and agony of mind, and the prayer car- 
ried on the wild wings of the night brought a fulfilment with 
it. Not ill vain were her tears and supplications, for even now 
the deliverer delved among 

“ The dust and awful treasures of the dead,” 

and even now the light of her coming happiness was breaking 
on her tortured night as the first cold gleams of the Christ- 
mas morning were breaking over the stormy fury of the void 
without. 

And then, chilled and numb in body and mind, she crept 
into her bed again and at last lost herself in sleep. 

By half-past nine o’clock, when Ida came down to break- 
fast, the gale had utterly vanished, though its footprints were 
visible enough in shattered trees, unthatched stacks, and ivy 
torn in knotty sheets from the old walls it clothed. It would 
have been difficult to recognize in the cold and stately lady 
who stood at the dining-room window, noting the havoc and 
waiting for her father to come in, the lovely, pnssionate, dis- 
hevelled woman wdio some few hours before had thrown her- 
self upon her knees praying to God for the succor she could 
not win from man. Women, like nature, have many moods, 
and many countenances to express them. The hot fit had 
passed, and the cold fit was on her now. Her face, except, for 
the dark hollows round the eyes, was white as winter, and her 
heart was cold as winter’s ice. 


265 


COLONEL quahttch, r.a 

Presently her father came in. 

“ What a gale ! ” he said, what a gale ! Upon my word I 
began to think that the old place was coming down about our 
ears; and the wreck among the trees is dreadful. I don’t 
think there can have been such a wind since the time of King 
Charles L, when the top of the tower was blown clean off the 
church — you remember I was showing you the entry about it 
in the registers the other day, the one signed by the parson 
and old Sir James De la Molie. The boy who has just come 
up tells me that he hears that poor old Mrs. Massey’s summer- 
house on the top of Dead Man’s Mount has been blown away, 
which is a good riddance for Colonel Quaritch. Why, what’s 
the matter with you? How pale you look.” 

“ The gale kept me awake. I got very little sleep,” an- 
swered Ida. 

“And no ’wonder. Well, my dear, you haven’t wished me 
a merry Christmas yet. Goodness knows we want one badly 
enough. There has not been much merriment at Honham of 
late years.” 

“A merry Christmas to you, father,” she said. 

“ Thank you, my love, the same to you ; you have got most 
of your Christmases before you, which is more than I have. 
God biess me, it only seems like j^esterday since the big bunch 
of holly tied to the hook in the ceiling there fell down on the 
breakfast-table and smashed all the cups, and yet it is more 
than sixty years ago. Dear me ! how angry my poor dear 
mother was ! She never could bear the crockerj^ to be broken 
— it was a little failing of your grandmother’s,” and he 
laughed more heartily than Ida had heard him do for some 
weeks. 

She made no answer, but busied herself about the tea. Pres- 
ently, glancing up, she saw her father’s face change. The 
worn expression came back upon it, and he lost his buoyant 
bearing. Evidently a new thought had struck him, and she 
was in no great doubt as to what it was. 

“We had better get on with breakfast,” he said. “You 
know that Cossey is coming up at ten o’clock.” 

“Ten o’clock?’’ she said, faintly. 

“ Yes. I told him ten, so that we could go to church after- 
wards if we wished to. Of course, Ida, I am still in the dark 
as to what you have made up your mind to do, but whatever 
it is I thought that he had better once and for all hear your 
final decision from your own lips. If, however, you feel your- 
self at liberty to tell it to me as your father, I shall be glad to 
heal* it*” 


266 


COLONEL qUARITCn, V.C 


She lifted her head and looked him full in the face, and 
then paused. He had a cup of tea in his hand, and it was 
held in the air half-way to his mouth, while his whole face 
showed the overmastering anxiety with which he was awaiting 
her reply. 

“ Make your mind easy, father,” she said, “ I am going to 
marry Mr. Cossey.” 

He put the cup down' in such a fashion that he spilled half 
of the tea, most of it over his own clothes, without even no- 
ticing it, and then turned away his face. 

“ Well,” he said, “ of course it is not ray affair, or, at least, 
only indirectly so, but I must say, my love, I congratulate you 
on the decision which you have come to. I quite understand 
that you have been in some little difficulty about the matter ; 
young women often have been before you, and will be again ; 
but to be frank, Ida, that Quaritch business was not at all suit- 
able, either in age, or fortune, or in anything else. Yes, al- 
though Cossey is not everything that one might wish, on the 
whole I congratulate you heartily.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t,” broke in Ida, almost in a cry. “ What- 
ever you do, pray don’t congratulate me ! ” 

Her father turned round again and looked at her. But Ida’s 
face had akeady recovered its calm, and he could make noth- 
ing of it. 

“I don’t' quite understand you,” he said; ‘‘these things 
are generally considered matters for congratulation.” 

But for all he might say and all that he might urge in his 
mind to the contrary he did, more or less, understand what 
her outburst meant. He could not but know that the excla- 
mation was the last outcry of a broken spirit. In his heart 
he realized then, if he had never clearly realized it before, that 
this proposed marriage was a thing hateful to his daughter, 
and his conscience pricked him sorely. And yet — and yet — 
it was but a woman’s fancy — a passing fancy 1 She would be- 
come reconciled to the inevitable as women do, and when her 
children came she would grow accustomed to her sorrow, and 
her trouble would be forgotten in their laughter. And if not ? 
Well, it was but one w^oman’s life which would be affected, and 
the very existence of his race, and the very cradle that had 
nursed them from century to century were now at stake. Was 
all this to be at the mercy of a girl’s fancy ? No ! let the in- 
dividual suffer. 

So he argued. And so at his age and in his circumstances 
most of us would argue also, and, perhaps, considering all 
things, we should be right. For in this world personal de- 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.G. 


267 


sires must continually give way to tlie welfare of others. Did 
they not do so our system of society could not endure. 

No more was said upon the subject. Ida made pretence of 
eating a piece of toast ; the squire mopped up the tea upon 
his clothes, and then drank some more. 

Meanwhile the remoi’seless seconds crept on. It wanted 
hut five minutes to the hour, and the hour would, she well 
knew, bring the man with it. 

The five minutes passed slowly and in silence. Both her 
father and herself realized the nature of the impending situ- 
ation, but neither of them spoke of it. Ah ! there was the 
sound of wheels upon the gravel. So it had come. 

Ida felt like death itself. Her pulse sank and fluttered; 
her vital forces seemed to cease their work. 

Another two minutes passed, and then the door opened and 
the parlor-maid came in. 

‘‘ jMi'- Cossey, if you please, sir.” 

“ Oh,” said the Squire. “ Where is he ?” 

“ In the vestibule, sir.” 

‘‘ Very good. Tell him I will be there in a minute.” 

The maid went 

“Now Ida,” said her father, “I suppose we had better get 
this business over.” 

“Yes,” she answered, rising; “I am ready.” 

And, gathering up her energies, she passed out to meet her 
fate. 


CHAPTEE XLIIL 

GEORGE IS SEEN TO LAUGH. 

Ida and her father reached the vestibule to find Edward 
Cossey standing with his face to the mantelpiece and ner- 
vously toying with some curiosities upon it. He was, as 
usual, dressed witli great care, and his face, though pale and 
worn from the effects of agitation of mind, looked, if any- 
thing, handsomer than ever. As soon as he heard them 
coming, which owing to his partial deafness he did not do 
till they were quite close to him, be turned round with a 
start, and a sudden flush of color came upon his pale face. 

The Squire shook hands with him in a solemn sort of way, 
like people do when they meet at a funeral, and Ida barely 
touched his outstretched fingers with her own. 


2G8 


COLONEL QUAUITCII, Y.C. 


A few random remarks followed about the weather, which 
really for once in a way was equal to the conversational strain 
put upon it, but at length these died away and there came an 
awful pause. It was broken at length by the Squire, who, 
standing with his back to the fire, his eyes fixed upon tho 
wall opposite, after much humming and hawing, delivered 
himself thus: 

“I understand, Mr. Cossey, that you have come to hear my 
daughter’s final decision on the matter of the proposal of 
marriage which you have made and renewed to her. Now, 
of course, this is a very important question, very important 
indeed, and it is one with which I cannot presume even to 
seem to interfere. Therefore I shall, without comment, leave 
my daughter to speak for herself ” 

“ One moment before she does so,” he interrupted, draw- 
ing indeed but a poor augury of success from Ida’s icy looks. 
‘‘I have come to renew my offer and to take my final answer, 
and I beg Miss De la Molle to consider how deep and sincere 
must be that affection which has endured through so many 
rebuffs. I know, or at the least I fearj that I do not occupy 
the xDlace in her feelings that I should wish to, but I look to 
time to change this ; at any rate, I am willing to take my 
chance. As regards money, I repeat the offer that I have 
already made.” 

“There, I should not say too much about that,” broke in 
the Squire, impatiently. 

“ Oh, why not? ” said Ida, in bitter sarcasm. “ Mr. Cossey 
knows it is one of the best arguments with our sex. I pre- 
sume that as a preliminary to the renewal of the engagement, 
the persecution of my father, which is being carried on by 
your lawyer, will cease ? ” 

“ Absolutely.” 

“And if the engagement is not renewed the money will of 
course be called in ? ” 

“My lawyers advise that it should be,” he answered, sul- 
lenly ; “ but see here, Ida, you may make your own terms 
about money. Marriage, after all, is practically a matter of 
bargaining, and I am not going to stand out about the price.” 

“You are really most generous,” went on Ida, in the same 
bitter tone, the irony of which made her father wince, for he 
understood her mood better than did her lover. “I only 
regret that I cannot ap^meciate the generosity more than I do. 
Bat it is at least in my power to give you the return which 
you deserve. 1 can no longer hesitate, but once and for 
all ” 


COLONEL QUARTTCH, VO. 


269 


And she stopped dead, and stared at the glass door as 
though she saw a ghost. Both her father and Edward Cos- 
sey followed the motion of her eyes, and this was what they 
saw. Up the steps came Colonel Quaritch and George. 
Both were pale and weary-looking, but the former was at 
least clean. • As for George, this could not be said. His head 
was still adorned with the red nightcap, his hands were cut 
and dirty, and on his clothes was an unlimited quantity of 
encrusted filth. 

“What the dickens — ” began the Squire, and at that mo- 
ment George, who was leading, knocked at the door. 

“You can’t come in now,” roared the Squire ; “don’t you 
see that we are engaged ? ” 

“But we must come in, Squire, begging your pardon,” an- 
swered George, with determination, as he opened the door, 
“ we’ve got that to say as 'svon’t keep.” 

“I tell you that it must keep, sir,” said the old gentleman, 
working himself into a rage. “ Am I not to be allowed a mo- 
ment’s privacy in my own house ? I wonder at your conduct. 
Colonel Quaritch, in forcing your presence u^^on me when I 
tell you that it is not wanted.” 

“I am sure that I apologize, Mr. De la Molle,” began the 
Colonel, utterly taken aback, “but what I have tq say is ” 

“ The best way that you can apologize is by withdrawing,” 
answered the Squire with majesty. “ I shall be most happy 
to hear what you have to say on another occasion.” 

“ Oh, Squire, Squire, don’t be such a fule, begging your par- 
don for the word,” said George, in exasperation. “Don’t go 
a-knocking of your head agin a brick wall.” 

“ Will you be off, sir ! ” roared his master, in a voice that 
made the walls shake. 

By this time Ida had recovered herself. She seemed to feel 
that her lover had something to say that concerned her 
deeply — read it in his eyes. 

“Father,” she said, raising her voice, “I won’t have Colonel 
Quaritch turned away from the door like that. If you will 
not admit him I will go outside and hear what it is that he 
has to say.” 

In his heart the Squire held Ida in some awe. He looked 
at her, and saw that her eyes were flashing and her breast 
heaving, and he gave w^ay. 

“ Oh, very well, since my daughter insists on it, pray come 
in,” and he bowed. “ If such an intrusion falls in with your 
ideas of decency it is not for me to complain.” 

“ I accept your invitation,” answered Harold, looking very 


270 


COLONEL QUARITCII, V.C. 


aiigiy, because I have something to say which you must 
liear, and hear at once. No, thank you. I will stand. Now, 
Mr. De la Molle, it is this, wonderful as it may seem. It has 
been my fortune to discover the treasure hidden b}' Sir 
James De la Molle in the year 1643.” 

There was a universal gasp of astonishment. 

“What!” said the Squire. “Why, I thought that the 
whole thing was a myth.” 

“No, that it ain’t, sir,” said George, with a melancholy 
smile, “ cos I’ve seen it.” 

Ida had sunk into a chair. 

“ What is the amount ? ” she asked, in a low, eager voice. 

“ I have been unable to calculate exactly, but, speaking 
roughly, it cannot be much under fifty thousand pounds, es- 
timated on the value of the gold alone. Here is a specimen 
of it,” and Harold, pulled out a handful of rials and other 
coins, and poured them on to the table. 

Ida hid her face in her hand, and Edward Cossey, realizing 
what this most unexpected development of events might mean 
for him, began to tremble. 

“I should not allow myself to be too much elated, Mr. De 
la Molle,” he said, with a sneer, “ for even if this tale be true, 
it is treasure trove, and belongs to the crown.” 

“ Ah,” said the Squire, “ I never thought of that.” 

“But I have,” said the Colonel, quietly. “If I remember 
right, the last of the original De la Molles left a will in , 
which he specially devised this treasure hidden by his father 
to your ancestor. That this is the identical treasure I am 
fortunateWin a position to prove by this parchment,” and he 
laid the writing that he had found with the gold upon the 
table. 

“ Quite right — quite right,” said the Squire, “ that wiU take 
it out of the custom.” 

“ Perhaps the Solicitor to the Treasury may hold a differ- 
ent opinion,” said Cossey, with another sneer. 

Just then Ida took her hand from her face. There was. a | 
dewy look about her eyes, and the last ripples of a happy i 
smile lingered round the corners of her mouth. 

“Now that w^e have heard what Colonel Quaritch had to 
say,” she said, in her softest voice, addressing her father, . 
“ there is no reason why we should not finish our business 
with Mr. Cossey.” 


Here Harold and George turned to go, but she weaved them 



COLONEL qUARITCLI, V.C. 271 

M’lien she cauglifc sight of the Colonel and George coming up 
the steps. 

“ I can no longer hesitate,” she said, “ but once and for all 
I decline to marry you, Mr. Cossey, and I hope that I shall 
never see your face again.” 

At this announcement the bewildered Squire put his hand 
to his head. Edward Cossey staggered visibly and rested 
himself against the table, while George murmured, audiblv, 
“That’s a good job.” 

“Listen,” said Ida, rising from her chair, her dark eyes 
flashing as the thought of all the shame and agony that she 
had undergone rose up within her mind. 

“ Listen, Mr. Cossey,” and she pointed her finger at him, 
“ this is the history of our connection. Some months ago I 
was so foolish, taking you for a gentleman, as to ask j^our 
help in the matter of the mortgages which your bank was 
calling in. You then practically made terms that if it should 
at any time be your wish I should become engaged to you ; 
and I, having no option, accepted. Then, in the interval, 
while it was inconvenient to you to enforce your rights, I 
gave my affection elsewhere. But when you, having deserted 
the lady who stood in your way — no, do not interrupt me ; I 
know it, I know it all ; I know it from her own lips — came 
forward and claimed my promise, I was forced to assent. 
Then a loophole of escape presented itself and I availed my- 
self of it. What followed ? You again became possessed of 
powSr over my father and this place, you insulted the man I 
loved, you resorted to every expedient that the law would al- 
low to torture my father and myself. You set your lawyers 
upon us like dogs upon a hare, you held ruin over us and 
again and again you offered me money, as mucli money as I 
wished, if only I would sell myself to you. And then you 
bided your time, leaving despair to do its work. 

“ I saw the toils closing round us. I knew that if I did not 
yield my father would be driven from his home in his old age,' 
and that the place he loved better than his life would pass to 
strangers — would pass to you. No, father, do not stop me ; 
I will speak my mind. 

“And at last I determined that cost what it might I would 
yield. Whether I could have carried out my determination 
God only knows. I almost think that I should have killed 
myself upon my marriage day. I made up my mind. Not 
five minutes ago the very words were upon my lips that would 
have sealed my fate, when deliverance came. And now go. 
I have done with you. Your money shall be paid to you, 


272 


COLONEL Q UAEITCn, V. C. 

capital and interest, down to the last farthing. I tender back 
mj price, and knowing you for what j^ou are, I — I despise 
yon. That is all I have to say.” 

“Well, if that beant a master one,” ejeculated George, 
aloud. 

Ida, who had never looked more beautiful than she did in 
this moment of passion, turned to seat herself, but the tension 
of her feelings and the torrent of her wrath and eloquence 
had been too much for her, and she would have fallen had 
not Harold, who had been listening amazed to this overpower- 
ing outburst of nature, ran up and caught her in his arms. 

As for Edward Cossey, he had shrunk back involuntarily 
beneath the volume of her scorn, till he stood with his back 
against the panelled wall. His face was white as a sheet ; 
despair and fury shone in his large dark eyes. Never had he 
desired this woman more fiercel}^ than he did now, in the 
moment when he knew' that she had escaped him forever. In 
a sense he was to be pitied, for passion tore his heart in twain. 
For a moment he stood thus, and then with a spring rather 
than a step, he advanced across the room till he was face to 
face with Harold, who with Ida, half fainting, still in his 
arms, and her head upon his shoulder, was standing on the 
farther side of the great open grate. 

“ you,” he said, “ I owe this to you — you half-pay ad- 

venturer,” and he lifted his arm as though to strike him. 

“ Come, none of that,” said the Squire, speaking for the 
first time. “I will have no brawling here.” 

“ No,” put in George, edging his long form betw’een the 
two, “ and, begging your pardon, sir, don’t you go a-calling 
of better men than yourself adwenturers. At any rate, if the 
Colonel is an adwenturer, he has adwentured to some pur- 
pose, as is easy to see,” and he pointed to Ida lying in his 
arms. 

“Hold your tongue, sir,” roared the Squire, as usual reliev- 
ing his feelings on his retainer. “ You are always shoving 
your oar in where it isn’t wanted.” 

“ All right. Squire, all right,” said George the imperturb- 
able ; “then his manners shouldn’t be sich.” 

“DO" you mean to allow this?” said Cossey, turning fiercely 
to the old gentleman. “ Do you me.an to allow this man to 
marry your daughter for her money ? ” 

“Mr. Cossey,” answered the Squire, with his politest and 
most old-fashioned bow, “ whatever sympathy I may have felt 
for you is being rapidly alienated by your manner. I told 
you that my daughter must speak for herself. She has 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


273 


spoken very clearly, and, in sliort, I have absolutely nothing 
to add to her words.” 

“I tell you what it is,” Cossey said, shaking with fury, “I 
have been tricked and fooled and played with, and so sure as 
there is a God above us I will have my revenge on you all 
somehow, The money that this man says that he has found 
belongs to the queen and not to you, and I will take care that 
the proper people are informed of it before you can make 
away with it, and when that is taken from you, if, indeed, the 
whole thing is not a trick, we wall see w’hat will happen to 
you. I tell you that I will take this property and I will pull 
this old place you are so fond of down stone by stone and 
throw it into the moat, and send the plough over the site. I 
will sell the estate piecemeal and blot it out. I tell you I have 
been tricked — you encouraged the marriage yourself, you 
know you did, and you forbade that man the house,” and he 
paused for breath and to collect his words. 

Again the squire bowed, and his bow was a study in itself. 
You do not see such bows nowadays. 

“ One minute, Mr. Cossey,” he said, very quietly, for it was 
one of his peculiarities to become abnormally quiet in circum- 
stances of real emergency, “ and then I think that w'e may 
close this painful interview. When first I knew you I did not 
like you. Afterwards, through various circumstances, I mod- 
ified my opinion and set my dislike down to prejudice. You 
are quite right in saying that I encouraged the idea of a 
marriage between you and my daughter, and also that I for- 
bade the house to Colonel Quaritch. I did so because, to be 
honest, I saw no other way of avoiding the utter ruin of my 
family ; but perhaps I was wrong in so doing. I hope that 
you may never be placed in a position whicli will force you to 
such a decision. Also at the time, indeed never till this 
moment have I quite realized how the matter really stood. 
I did not understand how strongly my daughter w^as attached 
in another direction, j^erhaps I was unwilling to understand 
it. Nor did I altogether understand the course of action by 
v/hich, it seems, you obtained a promise of marriage from my 
daughter in the first instance. I was anxious for the mar- 
riage because I believed you to be a better man than you are, 
and because I thought that it would place my daughter and 
her descendants in a much improved position, and that she 
would in time l)ecome attached to you. I forbade Colonel 
Quaritch the house because I thought that an alliance with 
him would be most undesirable for everybody vconcerned. I 
find that in all this I was acting wrongly, and^ I frankly admit 
18 


274 


COLONEL qUABITCII, V.V. 


it. Perhaps as we grow old we grow worldly also, and you 
and your agents pressed me very hard, Mr. Cossey. Still I 
have always told you that my daughter was a free agent and 
must decide for herself, and therefore I owe you no apology 
on that score. So much then for the question of your en- 
gagement to Miss De la Molle. It is done with. 

“ And now as regards the threats you make. I shall try to 
meet them as occasion arises, and if I cannot do so it will be 
my misfortune. But one thing they show me, though I am 
sorry to have to say it to any man in a house which I can still 
call my own— they show me that my first impressions of you 
were the correct ones. You are hot a gentleman, Mr. Gossey, 
and I must beg to decline the honor of your further acquaint- 
ance,” and with another bow he opened the vestibule-door and 
stood holding the handle in his hand. 

Edward Cossey looked round with a stare of rage, and then 
muttering one most comprehensive curse he stalked from the 
room, and in another minute was driving fast through the an- 
cient gateway. 

Poor man ! Let us pity him, for he also certainly got his 
full due. 

George followed him to the outer door and then he did a 
thing that nobody had seen him do before, he burst out into 
a loud laugh. 

“What are you making that noise about?” asked his mas- 
ter, sternly. “ This is no laughing matter.” 

“ Him ! ” replied George, pointing to the retreating dog- 
cart — he’s a-going to pull down the castle and throw it into 
the moat and send the plough over it, is he ? Him — that 
varmint ! Why, them old towers will be a-standing there 
when his beggarly bones is dust, and when his name ain’t no 
more a name ; and there’ll be one of the old blood sitting in 
them too. I knaw it, and I hev alius knaw'ed it. Come, 
Squire, though j^ou alius du say how as I’m a fule, what did I 
tell yer? Didn’t I tell yer that Prowidence weren’t a-going 
to let this place go to any laryers or bankers or thim sort. 
Why, of course I did. And now you see. Kot but what it 
is all owing to the Colonel. He w^as the man that found it, 
but then God Almighty taught him how to do it. But he’s 
a good un, he is ; and a gentleman, not like him,” and he 
once more pointed wdth unutterable scorn to the road down 
which Echvard Cossey had vanished. 

“ Now, look here,” said the Squire, “don’t you stand talk- 
ing here all day about things you don’t understand. That's 
the way you waste time. You be off and look after this gold ; 


COLONEL qUAPdTCR, V.G. 


275 


it should not be left alone, you know. We will come dowu 
ju'esently to Molehill, for I suppose that is where it is. No, 
I can’t stop to hear the story now, and besides I want Colonel 
Qaaritch to tell it to me.’’ 

“All right, Squire,” said George, touching his red night- 
cap, “I’ll be off,” and he started. 

“ George,” hallowed his master after him, but George did 
not stop. He had a trick of deafness when the Squire was 
calling and he wanted to go somewhere else. 

“ Confound you,” roared the old gentleman, “ why don’t 
you stop when I call you ? ” 

This time George brought his long, lank frame to a stand- 
still. 

“ Beg pardon. Squire.” 

“ Beg pardon, yes — you’re always begging pardon. Look 
here, you had better bring your wife and have dinner in the 
servants’ hall to-day, and drink a glass of port.” 

“Thank you. Squire,” said George, again touching his red 
nightcap. 

“And look here, George. Give me your hand, man. Here’s 
a merry Christmas to you. We’ve gone through some queer- 
ish times about this place together, but now it almost looks 
as though we were going to end our days in peace and 
plent}'.” 

“Same to you, Squire, I’m sure, same to jmu,” said George 
pulling off his cap. “ Yes, yes, we’ve had some bad years, 
what with poor Mr. James and that Quest and Cossey (he’s 
the master varmint of the lot he is), and the bad times and 
the Moat Farm and all ; but, bless you. Squire, now that 
there’ll be some ready money and no debts, why, if I don’t 
make out somehow so that you all get a good living out of 
the place Tm a Dutchman. Yes, it’s been a bad time and 
we’re getting old ; but there, that’s, how it is, the sky almost 
alius clears towards nightfall. God Almighty has a mind to 
let one down easy, I suppose.” 

“ If you would talk a little less about God Almighty, and 
come to church a little more, it would be a good thing, as 
I’ve told you before,” said the Squire ; “ but there, go along 
with you.” 

And the honest fellow went. 


276 


COLONEL QUARITCH, V.C. 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 

The Squire turned and entered the house. Ho generally 
w^as fairly noisy in his movements, but on this occasion ho 
was exceptionally so. Possibly he had a reason for it. 

On reaching the vestibule he found Harold and Ida stand- 
ing side by side as though they were being drilled. It was 
impossible to resist the conclusion that they had suddenly as- 
sumed that attitude because it happened to be the first posi- 
tion into which they could conveniently fall. 

There was a moment’s silence, and then Harold took Ida’s 
hand and led her up to where her father was standing. 

“Mr. De la Molle,” he said, simply, “once more I ask you 
for 3’our daughter in marriage. I am quite aware of my 
many disqualifications, especially those of my age and the 
smallness of my means ; but Ida and myself hope and believe 
that, under all the circumstances, you will no longer withhold 
your consent,” and he paused. 

“ Qaaritch,” answered the Squire, “I have already in your 
presence told Mr. Cossey under what circumstances I was fa- 
vorably inclined' to his proposal, so I need not repeat all that. 
As regards your means, although they would have been quite 
insufficient to avert the ruin which threatened us, still j'ou 
have, I believe, a competance, and owing to your wonderful 
and most providential discovery the fear of ruin seems to 
have passed away. It is owing to you that that disco veiy, 
which, by the way, I want to hear all about, has been made ; 
had it not been for jmu it never would have been made at all, 
and therefore I certainly have no right to say anything more 
about your means. As regards your age, well, after all, forty- 
four is not the limit of life, and if Ida does not object to 
marrying a man of those years, I cannot object' to her doing 
so. With reference to your want of occupation, I think that 
if you marry Ida this place will, as times are, keep your hands 
pi'etty fall, esjDecially when you have an obstinate donkey like 
that fellow George to deal with, for I am getting too old and 
stupid to look after it myself ; and, besides, things are so 
topsy-turvy that I can’t understand them. There is one thing 
more that I want to say : I forbade you the house. Well, you 
are a generous-minded man, and it is human to err, and I 
think that perhaps you will understand my action and not 
bear me a grudge on that account. Also, I dare say that at 
the time, and possibly at other times, I said things that I 
should be sorry for if I could remember what they were, 


COLONEL QUAPdTCH, V.C. 


277 


\vhidi I can’t ; and if so, I apologize to you as a gentleman 
should when he finds himself in the wrong. And now I sny, 
God bless you both, and hope yon will be happy in life to- 
gether, and so come here, Ida, my love, and give me a kiss. 
You have, been a good daughter all your life, and so Quaritcli 
may be sure that you will be a good wife too.” 

Ida did as she was bid, and then she went over to her lover 
and took his hand, and he kissed her on the forehead, and 
so, after all their troubles, they finally ratified the contract. 

And we, who have followed them thus far, and have per- 
haps been a little moved with their struggles, hopes, and 
fears, will not stirely grudge to re-echo the Squire’s old-fash- 
ioned prayer, “God bless them both.” 

God bless them both. Long may they live, and happily. 

Long may they live, and for very long may their children’s 
children of the race, if not of the name, of De la Molle, pass in 
and out through the old Norman gateway and past the sturdy 
Norman towers. The Boisseys, who built them, here had 
their habitation for six generations. The De la Molles, who 
v/edded the heiress of the Boisseys, lived here for thirteen 
generations. May the Quaritches, whose ancestor married 
Ida, heiress of the De la Molles, endure as long. 

Surely it is permitted to us to lift a corner of the curtain 
of futurity and to see, in spirit, Ida Quaritch, stately and 
beautiful, as we knew her, but of a happier countenance, 
seated, on some Christmas Eve to come, in the drawing- 
room of the castle and telling to the children at her knees the 
wonderful tale of how their father and old George, on this 
very night, when the great gale blew, long years ago, discov- 
ered the ruddy pile of gold, hoarded in that awful storehouse 
amid the bones of Saxon or Danish heroes, and thus saved 
lier to be their mother. We can surely see the wide and 
Avondering eyes and the fixed faces as for the tenth time they 
listen to a story before wdiich the joys of Crusoe will grow 
pale,, and hear the eager appeals for confirmation, made to 
the military-looking gentleman, very grizzled now, but grown 
better-looking with the advancing years, who is standing 
warmimg himself before the fire, the best and most beloved 
husband and father in the whole country-side. 

Perhaps there may be a vacant chair, and another tomb 
among the ranks of the departed De la Molles ; perhaps the 
ancient walls will no longer echo to the sound of the old 
Squire’s stentorian voice. And what of that ? It is our com- 
mon lot. 

But when he goes the country-side will lose a man of whom 


273 


COLONEL qUARlTCII, V.G. 


they will not see the like again, for the breed is dead or dying ; 
a man whose very prejudices, inconsistencies, and occasional 
wrong-headed violence will be held, when he is no longer 
here, to have been endearing qualities. And for manliness, for 
downright English, godfearing virtues, for love of queen, coun- 
try, family, and home, they may search in vain to find his 
equal among the thin-blooded gentility of the cosmopolitan 
Eiigdishman of the dawning twentieth century. His faults 
were many, and at one time he went near to sacrificing his 
daughter to save his house, but he would not have been the 
man he was without them. 

And so to him, too, farewell. Perhaps he will find him- 
self better placed in the Valhalla of his forefathers, sur- 
rounded by those stout old De la. Molles whose memory he 
regarded with so much affection, than here in the Victorian 
era. For, as has been said elsewhere, the old Squire would un- 
doubtedly liave looked better in a chain-shirt and a battle-axe 
than ever he did in a frock-coat, especially with his retainer 
George armed to the teeth behind him. 

They kissed, and it was done ; and out from the church 
tower in the meadows broke wdth clash and clangor the glad 
sound of the jOhristmas Bells. Out it swept over pitle and 
fallow, over grove and wood. It floated down the valley of 
the Ell, it beat against Dead Man’s Mount (henceforth to the 
vulgar mind more haunted than ever), and echoed up the cas- 
tle’s Norman towers and down the oak-clad vestibule. Away 
over the common went the glad message of Earth’s Saviour, 
away high into the air, startling the rooks upon their airy 
courses, as though the iron notes of the. world’s rejoicing 
would fain float to the throned feet of the World’s Everlast- 
ing King. 

Peace and good will, ay, and happiness, to the children of 
men while their span is, and hope for the beyond, and 
Heaven’s blessing on holy love and all good things that are. 
This was what those liquid notes seemed to say to the most 
happy pair who stood hand in hand in the vestibule and 
thought of all they had escaped and all that they had won. 

“ Well, Quaritch, if you and Ida have quite done staring at 
each other, which isn’t very interesting to a third party, per- 
haps you will not mind telling us how you happened on old 
Sir James De la Mode’s hoard.” 

Thus adjured Harold began his thrilling story, telling the 
whole history of the night in detail, and if his hearers had ex- 
pected to be astonished, certainly their expectations were con- 
siderablly more than fulfilled. 


COLONEL QUARITOII, V.C, 


279 


“ Upon my word,” said the Squire when he had done, “ I 
think I am beginning to grow superstitious in my old age. 
Hang me if I don’t believe it was the finger of Providence it- 
self that pointed out those letters to you. Anyway, I’m off to 
^e the spoil. Kun and get your hat, Ida, my dear, and we 
will all go together.” 

And they went and looked at the chest brimful of red gold, 
yes, and passed down, all three of them, into those chill pres- 
ences in the bowels of the mount, and, coming thence awed 
and silent, sealed up the place forever. 


CONCLUSION. 

GOOD-BY. 

On the following morning such inhabitants of Boisingham 
as happened to be about were much interested at seeing an 
ordinary farm tumbrel coming down the main street, and be- 
ing driven, or rather led, by no less a person than George 
himself, while behind it walked the well-known form of the 
old Squire, arm-in-arm with Colonel Quaritch. 

They were still more interested, however, when the tum- 
brel drew up at the door of the bank — not Cossey’s, but the 
opposition bank — where, although it was Boxing Day, the 
manager and the clerk were waiting, apparently for its coming. 

But their interest culminated when they perceived that the 
cart only contained a few flour sacks, and yet that each of 
these sacks seemed to require three or four men to lift it with 
any comfort. 

Thus was the gold safely housed. Upon being weighed its 
value was found to be about fiftj^-three thousand pounds of 
modern money. As, however, some of the coins were exceed- 
ingly rare, and of great value to museums and collectors, this 
value was considerably increased, and the treasure was ulti- 
mately sold for fifty-five thousand two hundred and fifty-four 
pounds. Only Ida kept back enough of the choicest coins to 
make a gold waistband or girdle and a necklace for herself, 
destined no doubt in future days to form the most cherished 
heirloom of the Quaritch family. 

On that same evening the Squire and Harold went to Lon- 
don and opened up communications with the Solicitor to the 
Treasuiy. Fortunately they Avere able to refer to the will of 
Sir Edward De la Molle, the second baronet, in which he 
specially devised to his cousin, Geoffrey Dofferleigh, and his 
heirs forever, not only his estates, but his lands, “together 
with the treasure hid thereon or elseAvhere by my late mur- 


280 


COLONEL qVAJUTCH, Y.C. 


dered father, Sir James De la Molle.” Also they produced 
the writing which Ida had found in the old Bible, and the 
parchment discovered by George among the coin. These tljree 
documents formed a chain of evidence which even officials in- 
terested for the Treasury could not refuse to admit, and in 
the upshot the crown renounced its claims, and the property 
in tlie gold passed to the Squire, subject to the payment of 
the same succession duty which he would have been called 
upon to meet had he inherited a like sum from a cousin at the 
present time. 

And so it came to pass that when the mortgage money was 
due it was paid to the last farthing, capital and interest, and 
Edward Cossey lost his hold upon Honham forever. 

As for Edward Cossey himself, we may say one more word 
about him. In the course of time he got over his violent pas- 
sion for Ida sufficiently to allow him to make a brilliant mar- 
riage with the only daughter of an impecunious peer. She 
keeps her name and title and he pWs the part of the neces- 
sary husband. Anyhow, my reader, if it is your glorious for- 
tune to frequenkthe gilded saloons of the great, you may meet 
Lady Honoria Tallbit and Mr. Cossey. If you do meet him, 
however, it may be as well to avoid him, for the events of his 
life have not been of a nature to improve his temper. This 
much then of Edward Cosse3\ 

If after leaving the gilded saloons aforesaid j^ou should 
happen to wander down Piccadilly or the Strand, as the case 
ina}' be, j'ou may meet another character in this histoiy. You 
may see a sweet, pale face, still stamped wdth a child -like 
roundness and simplicity, but half hidden in the coarse hood 
of the nun. You may see her, and if you care to follow you 
may find what is the work wherein she seeks her peace. It 
would shock you ; 3^011 would fly from it in horror ; but in her 
work of mercy and loving kindness — ^and she does it unflinch- 
ingly — and among her fellow’-nuns there is no one more be- 
loved than Sister Agnes. So good-b3" 

Harold Quaritch and Ida w'ere married in the si:)ring, and 
the village children strewed the church3’ard path — the same 
path where in anguish of soul the3" had met and parted on 
that dreary winter’s night — with primroses and violets. 

And there at the old church door, when the wreatli is on 
her brow and the veil about her face, let us bid farewell to 
Ida and her husband, Harold Quaritch. 


THE END, 


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ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak back, “female weak- 
ness,” ant e vemion , retroversion , bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
tiammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
(^varies, accompanied with internal heat. 

In pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “ mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in tho 
latter months of gestation, It sb prepares 
tho system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the sufferings of that try- 
ing ordeal. « 

« Favorite Prescription,” ' when 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder di^ 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tire Wrong Dlsease.— 
Many times women call oh their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases^ 
for which he prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
when, in reality, they are all only symp- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the came would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

‘‘Favorite Prescription” Is the 

only medicine for women sold, by drug- 

f ists, under a positive guarantee* 
rom the man(ifacturcr8, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will bo refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle- wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Liarge bottles (100 doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.O0. 

8^“ Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Addresi, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Associationi 
Ko. Main bxrjCET, BUFFALO, N. r» 


I 



yonmiE HAHRkeftc&EF. 


We are the oldest and lararest 
makers of toilet soaps and per- 
ftixnery in America. Our repu- 
tation and enormous sales have 
been earned by a conscientious 
effort to raise our productions to 
the hicrhest possible excellence. 


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